The Others
by maroonblaze
Summary: Heero was a good soldier. After over a decade of loyal service as a Gundam pilot and more, one thing has torn him from his duty. Now, if he fails to protect the Objective, the consequence is nothing less than the end of the world. *drastic rewrite*
1. Chapter 1

Well, as always I start this project off with a request for a Beta. This story wasn't doing so good on my other account and after going through it, I can see why. I still may go back and fix this chapter more little by little. Nothing important will change, just my style. If you're interested in betaing this once badly done story, please email me or put it in a review. I would be glad for the help.

Warning: This story is dark. It is not meant to be happy. It has homoerotic themes and a hell of a lot of blood. Ya hear me? DEATH! You have been warned.

Disclaimer: GW is not mine but I do have the boys stashed in a secret hidey-place...checks Nope sorry. Just wishful thinking.

Chapter 1 of The Other

**Heero Yuy**

**AC Two-Zero-Seven**

**Pluto**

It was just supposed to be a routine search and seizure. Enemy had a weapon; we take the weapon. And if we can't take the weapon, we make damn sure no one else can. That was the way things were done long before we had ever stepped into our mobile suits and it would stay that way after our suits rusted in some hangar.

Protocol. Back then Protocol was everything.

We had found out from a fairly low level Red, what we call the current batch of rebels, that there was actually a secret bunker on Pluto. It was a long shot but it was the only one we had. These rebels seemed to be especially resistant. They had already commandeered three Class V fighters, a new brand of mobile suit class. Although I never really liked them much, -they were too small and… puny-, but they was faster and stronger than the Zodiac and almost, _almost_, as resilient as the Gundams.

Quatre didn't like this mission and in the last twelve years of working with him I'd learned his instincts could save lives. But Zechs would hear none of it. Since his new appointment as New Chief Military Advisor to the Crown, he had been playing politics far too much. It had grated the nerves of no few other soldiers but not for the same reason. They didn't trust him, but Zechs and I had formed a friendship of sorts in the last decade. I respected him as a soldier. No title would change that for me. In my mind, he was a soldier first and foremost.

Unfortunately, because of a troublesome coupe almost immediately following the rise of the newly elected President in AC One-Nine-Six, the government was in chaos for almost three years. Finally, Relena stepped in as Signitary leader once again. Whoever had been on the fence of the Mini-government -as it had come to be called before that, unofficially, of course- quickly formed around her familiar pink frame. The rebels were crushed easily, but the percentage that remained had formed splinter factions. The surprising forerunner being The Reds. We didn't know much about them and I know that bothered Zechs beyond belief. A lot was riding on his shoulders to succeed. In some eyes, HE was being seen as a possible successor to his sister if one of the assassination attempts on our Queen of Pink actually turned out to work. No worry of that thankfully. Sally Po was doing a bang up job protecting Relena. No pun intended.

That need to prove himself was what brought myself, Quatre, Trowa and Wu Fei to this spit of a rock hanging in the stars. We took the compound easily. This should have been the first sign of something strange, but after a long, long period of fighting them, I had pretty much lost my patience, and wasn't about to look a gift horse in the mouth.

I was a fucking idiot.

Trowa was back on the ship, just in case we needed a pick up or his marksmanship from a distance. I hated to go in without Gundams, but in a war of sneak versus size, suits were almost obsolete. Which is why we needed the Class V's back so badly. They were small and fast and, damnit, might just win us this war with an enemy everyone had thought would be crushed by Christmas. That was two years ago.

Quatre and Wufei were making their way to the Obs deck, which our initial scans had shown was almost linked with the supposed location of the Objective, just three floors below. As I made my way through the correct air grate, I suppressed a shudder. I had been the one to finally break the Red "soldier." It was harder than I thought it would be, but all worth it. She had described a bio-weapon that, when correctly harnessed, could destroy entire battalions. It sounds like one of Quatre's new cheesy sci-fi novels. I was sure, though, that the Red had absolutely believed what she was telling me.

After all, I'm good at what I do.

I checked for life signs before dropping to the first spot, when Quatre's clipped tone rang out through the speakers. I nearly had a heart attack.

"There's no one here, 01."

It took me half a second to realize anything besides my heart pounding in my head. Only half.

I secured the area before speaking into the voice-box by the door. "Find me answers. Maintain radio silence as much as possible." The hairs on my neck were telling me something that I couldn't decipher yet. Something here was not right.

I walked in the first area of infiltration, knowing Quatre and Wufei were following my movements from Obs just like we planned. Nothing. Next room was the same. Next room was a bathroom containing the cadaver.

I had seen bodies before, we all had to in our line of work, But there was something about this that made me examine more than the non-existent pulse. In all honesty, it looked like a suicide. There were jagged half-formed lines running along her wrists. It would have taken her a long time to bleed out in the bathtub. Her naked body had started to prune. Her dark wiry hair had come off along the way to float in the pink water. Her once bronze skin had turned almost purple and waxey, the water accelerating the decomp. Something about this wasn't as clean cut as it seemed, I could feel it.

I slipped one of her eyes open with a gloved hand. It was red and puffy. Most likely having burst an ocular blood vessel. With that certainty, a cold sensation moved up my spine. I prodded her mouth open. Her jaw was tight. She hadn't left rigor. That in itself was odd. But as her tongue flopped down, and I saw the steady stream of blue foam dribble from her chin, I knew what it was.

"Quatre?" I didn't bother to use code. I had the feeling no one was listening.

The line was silent for a moment, as he was opening his face screen to see through my small camera that we all had on our helmets. It was tuned to only our frequency, and had no way of being traced. One of Wincorp's newest inventions.

"Yes." He sounded resigned. "It's Tact." A dangerous poison sometimes used as a recreational drug. I could tell, though, that from the stench of her breath and the rigidity of the body that she hadn't used it to have a good time.

Wufei unnecessarily posed the question as it was. "Why would someone take poison only to slit their wrists? That's irrational even for a woman."

"Because the poison wasn't working fast enough." Sometimes Quatre scared me. There had been _no_ reason for him to just say it out loud like that.

I processed things quickly. "Wufei, meet me at drop point one. Quatre run a sweep of the compound one more time. Tell Trowa to do the same from his station, and apprise him of the situation." Trowa was too out of range to hear us.

Five minutes later, Wufei met me beside the grate where I first emerged. Having walked the corridors unlike me, he gave me a perplexed shake of the head. He hadn't come up against any resistance, then. I held back the urge to vomit.

Without saying a word, I led him to Objective. We didn't bother to hide ourselves. If anyone was here, I _wanted_ them to attack. We might well get some answers out of them. When we were positioned straight down the hall from The Room, we heard the scream. A loud shredding shriek like knives on a metal grate tore through me like tissue paper. I knew without a doubt that it wasn't human. No person I ever heard could make a soul-wrenching cry that could set my entire body trembling. My mind irrationally conjured up images of the Old Irish creature, the banshee. I would find out later that I wasn't that far off. I threw caution to the wind then and shoved all thought from my mind as I ran towards the sound. Whatever it was, was still screaming on the same breath, and I wanted- I _had _to save it.

Although my convictions were strong, Wufei made it to the door first, bounding through the opening door like a tiger pursuing his prize. It was completely dark but he found his mark easily enough. As the shot rang out, all other sounds stopped. I needed to shove past Wufei to see, but I couldn't move. I barely breathed. Again, Wufei acted first and walked over to the "soldier" he had wounded.

"Kill it," the Red gasped out, between the blood spilling from his mouth. He managed to point a pudgy finger to the back of the room that the light from the doorway hadn't quite reached. Wu Fei gave him a clean pop to the head and it was done.

We should have interrogated him, but as I said, all rational thought had fled us at this point.

Again silence settled on the small, dark, metallic, room, until we heard a whimper; a clink of chains, coming from where the Red had feebly pointed.

I switched my helmet screen to low res, seeing a vague blur but not much else. When I shifted to infrared, my breathing really did stop. I heard Wufei's knees finally give way and Quatre gave a strange sort of gasp that came out as a frightening giggle. At first glance, the form looked human. Slight, but definitely male. He clasped the chains above his head with small hands in an attempt to stand. And behind him... attached to him... I couldn't understand. My brain wouldn't process it. I thought there was only one at first, stretched around him protectively, but the other was hanging off at an angle, waving at me. It looked sawed through.

"I'm sorry," He said in a voice that was far too high for him. "I be good."

I was alone in the room with him and the executed Red. Wufei must have run out. Cautiously, as one would for a wild animal, I took a step forward. He wiggled on the chain anxiously, emboldening me the rest of the way. I crossed the room in quick strides. The cuffs were easy, I quickly disentangled them from his wrists and He collapsed into me, like a marionette who's strings had been violently cut. I lowered his shaking body to the ground, being carefully of the still sickening injury. He was so light. Almost like He wasn't there. He clutched my shoulders, burying his face in my chest. I held him close, sheltering him as best I could. After a moment I quickly realized how cold he was in my arms. He didn't have any clothes. At this point he was shaking so hard, the severed limb was waving uselessly.

I was about to pick him up to carry him out when again he spoke in that too-high too-sweet voice, saying, "Take it off."

Instinctively, I knew what he meant. For a moment I didn't think I could do it, I couldn't hurt him. "But-"

"Please!"

Finally he turned his face to mine. He had a heart shape face that ended in a pointed chin. His ears were small making his round eyes even bigger. I wanted to see the color so bad it was painful, but I was still in infrared. Everything was the color of blood. From this distance, I could tell he was crying.

I nodded, swallowing the lump in my throat. "Lean on me."

I moved my arms around him and grasped the dangling bone in my hands, one on each side of the cut. With a sickening squelch the rest of it came off in a single twist.

He gave another much quieter scream into my collar, as I tried to stop the bleeding with thick wire from a pocket in my sleeve, all the while making shushing noises. It wasn't necessary. He had thankfully passed out by this point. I carried him back to the shuttle where Quatre and Wufei were waiting. They didn't even look at us. It was only when we had been fully loaded on Quatre's ship, that I remembered that I had left His bloody, battered wing shining in the open doorway of the metal room. There was no use going back for it now.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N I did a few small changes to the last chapter. I fixed the date and worked on some typos/inconsistencies.

This chapter has the first major deviation from the original version thus far, but I like it much better. It's fleshed out and shows a better perspective on the situation.

Again -because there was confusion from some my readers-, this is the rewrite, and, yes, I am the same author that wrote the original version. I just thought it'd be easier to simply post here instead of deleting the last one, or reposting the entire thing chapter by chapter. I'll also be transferring my other stories to this account bit by bit, so if you're a fan of Harry Potter or original characters, keep a look out.

**Chapter 2**

We were hovering behind an asteroid as Trowa finished his sweep of the compound, what we had dubbed _Orion 12,_ from the cockpit. There still was no single sign of life in the place. Wufei was decrypting the footage and files that Quatre had gathered from his time on the deck. This was a very good thing because I wanted answers, damnit. The entire situation was unsettling to me. Why did that girl kill herself? Where were the other people on _Orion_ _12_? And for the love of God, how the hell had the Reds gotten the money to make such a sophisticated hide-out?

Quatre had relayed the situation in its entirety to Trowa over the radio while we had waited for pick up. Not the best or smartest of moves at this point, but Quatre was more shaken than the rest of us, I think. In my opinion, he shouldn't even have been there. Unlike us, _he_ had a family to go home to. But he had volunteered and Zechs had given him the job, so who was I to say no?

This newest ship of Quatre's, _The Strait and True,_ we were using was small and made almost no sound, so that could have factored into Zechs decision. When I say "new," I mean brand new. It was a prototype, in essence, and Quatre was the only one familiar enough with the controls, although I did read through the file on the craft before the mission.

I really did hate that ship, and I could think of a few changes I'd make right off the bat. The shape bothered me. The damn thing looked ridiculous, and don't even ask me how she stayed in the sky. I didn't hate it _just_ the interior decoration, which was pure _white. _everything from the helm to the bench beside me was a bright, unfiltered white. Her outer hull, painted a glassy black, was shaped like a barbell with two balls at the end instead of weights. The front rounded area was the cockpit, equipped with four seats. Two in the front for flight and weapons fire, one in the back for navigation and the last one was for the passenger to hold on and try not to be sick, 'cause this ship was fast, which was about one of the only things she had in her favor. The cockpit connected to the second rounded area by a short hallway. This would be our one bedroom that was more like a barrack -cramped as hell-, and our "bathroom," which, in all honesty, I was surprised we even had. The beds were built into the wall and were designed to shift back into it at the push of a button. Even then, there was only room enough for three beds. Trowa and Quatre shared. We were lucky enough to have a shower in the bathroom, though, even if the addition required a slide-out urinal. Military luxuries. You get used to 'em, I guess.

I call us military. We really aren't. There was no record of us in any military file, and there never would be. We were elite, even without the Gundams. Although lately I felt like we had been bumped to the status of Zech's errand boys. Yeah, the pay was good, but the past few years had been a bit boring, to tell you the truth. This was the most excitement we'd had in months. Which is a good thing, I guess. Boring means no one was dying. I just couldn't shake the feeling that all this surveillance and playing bodyguard to some military bigwig or other had made us soft. Including Zechs. I almost felt sorry for him. If _I _was bored, he must be crawling the walls.

When the government of New Sanc had been created, Zechs had refused royal status. Relena then promoted him to the highest rank in her Royal Preventers that she could think of. New Chief Military Advisor to the Crown. She had made up the title on the spot, and just handed it over to him. At the time the title had come with almost too much power. Basically, among other things, Zechs could at any time overthrow his dear little sister if he ever thought her unfit. He could and still can call a state of military emergency for no reason whatsoever and order tanks to run through the streets. Not that he ever would, but he has that power. He also has immediate Inheritance of Rule should anything happen to his sister. Relena had yet to tell him. I know he'd never agree to it.

The appointment was Relena's own self-doubt showing through. In her own strange way it assured that if she should fail in any way, the kingdom would be taken care of. However, the newly elected Congressional had a few things to say about that when they found out. Only took them a year. It was still in contestation today. Not from Zechs, he would gladly be done with it. Again, it was just Relana making trouble.

For once, I wished she was with us on this insane mission. She might have had a better grasp of the situation. I looked back through the window for the barracks to the figure lying in my bunk at the far end of the room.

_Or maybe not._

From my vantage point by the door I could see he had, in his sleep, draped his left and final feathered appendage over his now thankfully clothed body. We didn't have much in the way of clothing but Quatre had equipped the ship with emergency provisions, including two one-size-fits-all pair of regulation sweatpants and black T. Putting a shirt on the boy would have been impossible of course but the pants fit just barely. Even though they were made small to stretch, the black sweats hung off him precariously. This just made it even more obvious exactly how malnourished he really was. Now, however all that could be seen of the boy besides the wing were his slender feet and bright red hair.

I had already dressed his wounds, of course. Yes more than one. It turns out there were two other stumps on his back I hadn't noticed at the time, located right below the first set. That meant he had had four _wings_ in all. Besides the bleeding stumps he was covered in cuts and bruises, some already having healed over. He had a head wound that had thankfully stopped bleeding quickly. Besides his size, he wasn't showing any immediate signs of starvation or dehydration. No fever or trembling, at least when he was unconscious, and I was glad he was sweating somewhat. His wrists were torn to hell, though. Not having much to work with I had cleaned them and wrapped the wrists in gauze, but seeing him like that… Well I was holding myself back from going back on _Orion_ _12_ and shooting that Red bastard again.

I didn't want to think much on what they had done to him, but it still made my blood boil. He couldn't have been more than fourteen, and he was small in every way, from his slender hands to his apparent short stature. He was too young to go through torture like that. Then again, he had two sets of goddamned _wings_. Who knew how old he was?

Quatre interrupted my musings by heading my way from the cockpit. He had taken off his helmet -against regulations, by the way. We were supposed to wait until we'd docked. That's not what I noticed right away, however. He had that little semi-smile he would use on his more angry clients. The ones he needed to keep calm when he said something he knew they definitely would not appreciate.

_Uh-oh. _I kept my face passive. As always.

"Heero, can we talk?"

_Shit._ I nodded, and just to be nice, I shucked my helmet off my head. Thankfully we had relative privacy in the hallway connecting all three rooms; Quatre had closed the door to the cockpit.

"Are you sure we're doing the right thing?" he asked in a quiet voice.

"You're not?" I asked incredulously.

He sighed and looked behind me, to the bedroom door. "This is-. Oh, Allah, what did they do to him?"

Quatre's shoulders, almost his entire body, sagged. He looked about ready to fall over as he walked to the window and stared at the boy, his back to me. "Is it real?"

I didn't know whether he was talking about the wing or the boy, but I went for the safer answer. "It's not a fake. They're attached to his back."

He still had his back to me, as I waited for him to talk. "He's not Duo, Heero."

The name nearly knocked the wind out of me. "Don't."

When he finally faced me, I couldn't look at him. "I just want you to know what you're doing." He added quickly, cutting off anything I would say, "This affects us all."

"I can't just shove him out the airlock," I hissed, surprised at my own vehemence.

"Oh, Heero!" The young trillionaire looked positively scandalized. "I would never suggest such a thing."

"Murder's not an option." Wufei had walked in without my noticing.

_I must be getting soft, _I thought, turning my attention back to Quatre.

"Of course not," Quatre said defiantly, blue eyes blazing, "but how we handle it when we get back to _Calliope_, should be brought into question."

_Calliope_ is the main New Sanc warship that was in orbit around the moon. Actually it was more of a collaboration between Sanc and our allies. And "warship" was a general term. There were families and businesses residing on her, too. She was more of a political statement than anything else. Most soldiers, the few that worked there, called her Central. As far as I knew, Zechs was waiting for us there.

I decided without even hesitating. "We tell him."

"You're sure?" Wufei's mistrust was understandable, but it still irked me.

"He is a soldier first, Chang." I glared at him for a moment to drive the point home. "Besides, we can't just come back empty-handed."

Wufei hesitated and glanced over my shoulder, but I knew he couldn't see anything from his vantage point.

I decided to appeal to his sense of practicality. "We'll need him to know something in order to keep this out of the general public."

"I agree," Quatre said, looking thoughtfully at the white metal under his feet. "We can trust him."

"I meant, would he believe... this?" Wufei gestured vaguely behind me and towards the planet to our portside.

This was getting ridiculous. "We. Show him. The. Video."

Wufei nodded accepting my orders with no little reluctance on his part. But he'd do as he was told, like always.

"I decrypted the files," he said, changing topics flawlessly. "We have the footage if you're ready."

I demanded he show me, only giving one final glance at my bed as I followed Wufei to his seat on the cockpit. They tried to peer over my shoulder to the flat, brightly lit console in front of me, when I shouted an annoyed. "Quatre to your position. Wufei take my seat."

Trowa nodded at me from the pilots seat indicating he wanted in on this show. I would have smirked if I wasn't tingling with anticipation. I wanted to know what had happened. I needed to know

But we still weren't out of the woods yet. I looked at my screen and noticed maybe 20 cameras were playing simultaneously throughout _Orion_ _12_. But no camera in the room where the boy was found. I cursed under my breath as I noticed there was almost a years worth of footage. I quickly and arbitrarily chose the date seven days prior to our arrival, checking first to see if there were actual people in the footage. Whatever had happened to them must have been sometime after that. I divvied the cameras up into five per person. They'd be playing simultaneously on each of our screens, and there were helpful little time slots on the video so we'd be able to sync up if needed.

I explained this and told them to shout if they saw anything. Unfortunately, there was no audio, but you take what you can get.

Something occurred to me then. "Wufei, are the cameras still recording down there?"

"Yes."

Short. Simple. To the point. Sometimes I missed the truculent prideful bastard from even a few short years ago. It was better than this automaton he had become.

From my vantage point directly behind him I looked at his back through my lashes. I glanced over his crew cut hair -He'd cut it all off a year ago- down to his shoulders, which seemed overly large from my position. I took a moment to remember him as the sinuous dragon from when we were teenagers. Now he was all bulk, having sacrificed the quickness and grace of yesteryears for sheer fighting force. It struck me in that instant how much he had really changed. We all had but nothing like the transformation Wufei had undergone.

Quatre's polite cough beside me brought me back to the matter at hand.

I routed the information and designated cameras to their consoles but didn't have the chance to push play when Quatre piped up, "Do we even have time for this? Maybe we should get back to _Calliope_ first? The tech's there would be better equipped to handle the footage, I'm sure."

Surprisingly, Trowa was the one to interject, saving me from having to bite Quatre's head off, thus showing what a truly short fuse I had right then.

"You know Zechs is going to want answers right away, Quatre," he said gently, and before they could make goo-goo eyes at each other I turned back to the five little boxes of frozen images on my console. "Besides, you're just as curious as the rest of us."

I could fucking _hear_ the fond smirk that was shining through his soft voice.

"Well," Quatre said slowly, obviously falling to the charms of his ex, "we _are _ahead of schedule."

It was true. We had just arrived that "morning" and already we had full run of the facility.

A moment's silence ensued where they were most likely doing that silent communication thing. I used to be able to do that… with-

"Let's do this thing." I pushed play.

It was a whole week to go through, but that's why God made the fast forward button. We would be done in about a few hours by my calculation. And if after that we had found nothing, I would order departure and we would just finish on our way home, going back in the video and watching it by weekly intervals. It'd take us a few days to get back to _Calliope_, after all.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N Well, I've finally settled on a plot. Duo WILL be making an appearance, and yes, he's going to play a big part in the upcoming story. But for now, simply enjoy the mental machinations of our favorite perfect soldier.

Warnings for this chapter: Death and lots of blood.

**Chapter 3**

I'd given myself the most important camera spots. The Deck, the "front door" loading dock, the "back door"- an escape route we hadn't noticed from our time there-, a camera that looked into the bathroom with the corpse - damn lucky on that one-, and the camera showing the only hallway leading to The Room, as I had come to calling it in my head. More than what had happened immediately before we got there, I wanted to know when exactly they had brought him to _Orion_ _12_. I would make sure to go back and check after we had finished with this batch. If Zechs wanted to know anything else, he could order his lab geeks to go through it all.

After the first hour mark, I realized I was actually getting bored. While the experience had given insight into the daily life of the Reds, not a lot had happened on the winged-boy/dead body front. The videos were just showing the Reds going about their day, talking with each other and doing various jobs. There _was_ a shipment arriving at the loading dock about five days before our arrival but it was just supplies from the look of things.

This sense of normalcy surrounding the Red base allowed me to focus my attention mainly on the hallway leading to The Room. It didn't get a lot of visitors except once a day in the "morning." At about 0700, the Red Wufei had killed would walk by the camera and around the corner, to the place they were holding the boy. The Red would stay there for sometimes up to three hours, then leave looking as calm as when he'd entered. _I_ tried to stay calm and memorize all I could about these moments. It might be helpful later.

As I went through the rest of the mind numbingly dull security recordings, I was again struck by how pristine the conditions on the "bunker" were. Clean _tiled _floors, industrial light shining in every room. The walls were even painted for Christ sake. Everything was a strange off-white grey except for a red line running through the middle of the walls. The Red insignia.

_How the hell are they paying for all this,_ I thought for about the fiftieth time.

That was when Quatre saw something interesting.

"Guys?" The tremulous nature of his voice brought me instantly from my own thoughts. "This man looks…" He trailed off obviously at a loss for words.

"Show us," I ordered, pausing my own cameras. From beside me, Quatre lifted a gloved hand to push the button that would enable us to share screens. Even through the thick material I could see he was shaking.

This was why what I saw next was unexpected to say the least. A corridor came into view. It was a normal, ordinary red and grey hallway. The first thing I noticed was the timestamp. Quatre was far ahead of me and most likely the others. It was exactly twenty-four hours prior to our arrival. That in itself was unsettling. For a few seconds nothing happened then into view came a… slightly rotund figure dressed in the Red uniform. His- 'cause it _was_ a man- back was to us, but even through the fuzz of the camera, the colors were unmistakable. Dark grey pants and grey vest over a black turtleneck. On their upper sleeve they wore a band of black with a light grey circle and a red horizontal line running through it.

The way he walked was off-putting. He looked, for lack of a better word, drunk. His ambling steps caused him to move in a slow curve down the hallway. Then, right before the Red reached the end of where the camera was angled, he stopped, and he ever so slowly looked left. Then right. I had no idea where he was looking because he was stuck parallel between two walls.

That's when he turned fully around to face us.

"What the hell?" I blurted before I could stop myself.

"Th-this is where I stopped," Quatre whispered. I didn't know if he was talking to us or just himself.

The Red was covered in blood. The entire front of his uniform was splattered if not completely soaked in dark patches of blood. It was on his face, covering off his hands…

"Is that a gun?" Wufei's asked.

I looked and there in his left hand was a .45. It hung loosely at his side as he shuffled back towards the camera. All I could do, all any of us could do was watch in stunned silence as he made his way back to the front of the corridor. He stopped and for a few seconds, he looked _directly at us._ Not at the camera. _Us_. At least that's how it felt at the time.

When the Red raised the hand to his mouth and pulled the trigger Quatre screamed.

I didn't know what to say. No one did, from the silence permeating the room a full minute after the man lay unmoving on the ground, a spreading red pool haloing out from head.

"Trowa, Wufei," I drew their attention using my "military" voice. "Note timestamp. Sync cameras. Find me something."

Thankfully they had known me long enough to know what I meant. I wanted to see if anything suspicious had happened on their footage during the same timeframe. After merely ten minutes of searching Wufei found something else. He routed it to us but it was no less astonishing as the previous incident. From the camera angle we could see at least fifty people walking into a room and actually cutting off their own oxygen. They simply stood around calmly as they suffocated themselves.

"Why?" Quatre asked no one in particular.

I barked out, "Trowa-"

"Checking for airborne toxins now."

Air. That sounded nice. Without further preamble I stood and rushed into the brightly lit hallway. It wasn't much but it was a bit bigger than that shadowed shoebox of a cockpit. Quatre came directly on my heels. I heard him slide to the white bench beside me. I knew he was even more affected by what we had just seen, but I just couldn't summon up the mind to care. It was all too much. Things were spiraling out of control and I didn't have a parachute. This was _not _a routine snatch-and-grab.

That was when I heard the whimpering shouts coming from the barracks. And without a word of warning or thought of that damned footage, I had run into the room and was kneeling by my bed. The boy was having a nightmare. His wing had moved aside to show his face and even with his eyes closed, he looked scared shitless. It could break your heart.

And thank God because that had snapped me out of whatever fugue state I had put myself in. I was needed. I had to act like the leader everyone thought I was.

I leaned over him to try to check his head wound. That was what worried me the most. Next thing I knew, I was across the room with a burning sensation under my chin. He had woken up and the poor kid was frantic. He was moving throughout the room, like a wild bird. It was jerky, overstated gesticulations, all bent limbs and flinging arms. I made sure to keep far away from his wing this time. Fucker was strong.

Finally, he saw the open door. He made a move towards it, only to give out one of his strangled screams at the last second and crash himself backwards into the far wall, cowering between the edge of two beds. I looked to see what startled him. Wufei was standing in the doorway, staring. I could see Quatre watching over his shoulder, looking sick. Wufei just looked awed.

I didn't have time to speculate on it. I waved for them to move. Finally they both got the hint and backed away from the door, Quatre thankfully closing it in a "whoosh." The only sound now was my own heart and the boy's ragged, squeaky noises of panic.

I didn't want to scare him, so I bent and squat-walked around the beds, keeping a distance. He looked the picture of pathetic. His face buried in the pale, skinny knees he had brought up to his chest. The wing didn't quite cover him so he used his right arm as a substitute, folding it directly upwards as if it hid him somehow. He reminded me of a child playing peek-a-boo. It would have been comical if it didn't make my insides flip backwards.

Looking back, I shouldn't have felt as connected to the boy as I did. After all, we had just taken him from a slaughterhouse without knowing if he had any connection to what those people did to themselves. But everything about him made me want to protect him, to shield him from anything and everything that could have hurt him.

I got a flash of those Reds in that room. A fair few of them could have been even younger than him. I would have blanked out again but right then, I had to focus on the trembling "angel" in front of me. One wrong word and I could earn myself another bruise and quite possibly a concussion.

"Shh," I said awkwardly.

I know, I know, not the most eloquent of reassurances. It was all I could think of to say, ok?

The boy, for his part, just huddled in tighter on himself and shook even harder, if that was possible.

"You're safe now," I whispered. Yes I'm awful at this whole "calming" thing. It wasn't my fault. Reassuring stragglers we picked up along the way was Quatre's job, not mine.

"Hurts." His voice was so high pitched it was almost painful to hear. He sounded like a frightened little boy, much younger than he looked.

I took a chance and stepped closer. "Where? What hurts?"

_Stupid_ _question_.

"Why?" He looked at me then. Yellow-green. He had yellow-green eyes. I won't ever forget that.

"I-I don't..."

"Why did they do it?" he begged, moving to sit on his knees as he leaned forward, his face mere inches from mine. I tried not to be distracted by his wing, which was flapping a bit in his distress.

"I don't know." I slowly moved a bit. My leg was starting to cramp. "But you're safe now."

"I can't feel anything." Fuck, he was crying.

"What?"

He just shook his head, and buried it in his hands. The boy actually looked downright frustrated.

"I'm Heero." For lack of a better topic, introductions was usually the safest.

"My hero." He smiled through his tears.

He didn't cry like a normal person. All snot, puffy eyes and red nose. His face was free of blemish all but for the clear, crystalline tears gliding down his rounded, rosy cheeks.

"N-no." I sat beside him, against the wall and ignored my gun pressing sharp against my thigh. "My _name_ is Heero."

He frowned, confused. Then worried. Then scared. The transition was fascinating to watch, really. "I don't know," he said, trembling again. I wasn't really sure when he had stopped.

"You can't remember your name?"

_Jesus, how long has he been down there?_

It was common for torture victims to forget certain things after a while. You can lose yourself if you don't know to hold on to the little bits of information that make you _you_. We had been trained to withstand torture. You need to regain some small victory over your captors, and a huge part of the process was self control to the smallest degree. But this kid had obviously not had any military training.

"It's okay," I assured. "We'll work on that together."

The smile he rewarded me with was almost blinding.

A/N Oooo, intrigue!. Please review.


	4. Chapter 4

A/N Thank you ClosetGoth for the lovely reviews. Hope you enjoy the newest installment of… THE OTHERS! Dun dun _dun._

Chapter 4

Quatre was not in his right mind. He knew that. On some level he _knew_ seeing that thing had shaken him to his core. That small "boy" talking to Heero in their barracks had shifted everything he ever knew or had ever been taught about Allah and angels and had taken them to a very dark place indeed. After what had happened to Duo half a decade before, Quatre had immersed himself back into his Faith. He'd thought he was getting a pretty good grasp on his Islamic beliefs again, too, until this had happened. He had believed Allah had created angels for a set of strict reasons, and one of those reasons was most certainly _not _to scare the hell out of four soldiers in the middle of space!

Quatre couldn't let himself believe that the thing in there was an angel. But if not an angel; then what?

_Some sort of experiment, perhaps. Maybe, splicing or simply an abomination_, he thought desperately but a large part of him knew he was wrong.

That uncouth joke of Heero's about throwing it out an airlock was ashamedly tempting.

He shook his himself before he went into hysterics. He had to stay in calm even if the world didn't make a lot of sense right now. Iria would kill him if he collapsed… again.

Thankfully, Trowa's voice interrupted his spiraling thought process. "No airborne toxins present. Proceeding with docking sequence now."

Quatre was back in the cockpit before Trowa could "proceed" with anything. He placed a gloved hand on Trowa's shoulder, grabbing his attention. "What? Why?"

He must have sounded more panicked than he'd intended, because Trowa turned and just _looked_ at him for a full five seconds before answering.

"I have to take samples, Quatre, you know that," he soothed. "We need more information if we're going to find out what happened here, or else all this will be for nothing."

Trowa's steady voice and reasonable answer made Quatre's thundering heart calm a little. Trowa was always steady. No matter what. Now more than ever, Quatre missed that about him.

Without another word, he let his hand fall from Trowa's shoulder and stepped back. "I hate when you're right," Quatre mumbled.

Trowa allowed himself a small affectionate smile he reserved for Quatre alone and commenced with docking.

The tiny ship didn't make a sound as Trowa commenced with docking procedures. Quatre felt a small sense of pride at watching the flawless movements of his new baby.

_It's a Wincorp_ _product. Of _course_, it's flawless_.

This made Quatre wince at the reminder of his company back on Earth. And who exactly he had left in charge. He wondered vaguely if he'd ever even see her again. This whole situation had filled him with a definite sense of impending doom.

That foreboding feeling was the whole reason he had been so insistent to accompany his fellow former pilots. He had tried to talk Zechs out of sending his friends at first, but after that failed, he'd insisted on going along, even going so far as to offer up the one and only mockup of his new baby, _The_ _Strait_ _and_ _True_.

_So, you have only yourself to blame_, Quatre chastised himself, silently watching Trowa expertly maneuver them into docking position. Thankfully, the Reds had equipped their compound with automatic docking equipment.

For a supposed band of renegades, they were very well equipped. Although they had a small outcrop for incoming ships and supplies, most of the compound was actually _beneath_ the planet's surface. Trowa was docking them onto some form of metallic door surrounded by clamps that automatically attached to the ship's hull. This allowed a visiting pilot to align the vessel's door to the compound's. The entire process took maybe twenty minutes and was quick and easy, once the Red's computer had recognized your ship's computer code. Quatre had imputed it when Wufei left him back on _Orion_ _12_. If it hadn't recognized the code, _Orion12's_ computer would have automatically zapped the ship to incapacitate, but not kill, all inside, while still leaving the ship functioning.

Well equipped, indeed.

Trowa unhooked his harness, and as there was no room for Quatre standing there like stump -a design flaw he would make sure to fix after this was all over-, he moved backwards into the hallway where the outer door was located. Trowa was just finishing up the routine checking of his suit, when the blond again reached his hand out to grasp his.

To his credit, Trowa actually managed to seem surprised. "You want to come?"

_No, _something inside the Arab screamed._ Never again!_ But as Quatre glanced at Wufei sitting silently at his console going through the files to find those stupid little Class Vs, he knew that there was no chance of _him_ moving. And he couldn't allow Trowa to go traipsing around _alone_ in there. He nodded, his golden curls bouncing emphatically.

"Of course," Quatre said flippantly, donning his headgear. He added as an afterthought, "Protocol dictates we stay in pairs."

Trowa eyed him for a long moment when Quatre opened the inner door.

"You coming?" Quatre dared with much more bravado than he actually felt.

And with that they were off.

Wufei, alone, gave in to the pull and walked silently through the hallway. He stopped a few feet away from the barracks door and stared at it until he spun to lean against the wall, his legs shaking. Before they gave out, he slumped to the floor.

_How did this happen?_

Trowa did not like how Quatre was acting. He had expected the man to be mooning over the kid. After all, Quatre was the nice one, the good boy of the team. The metaphorical angel as opposed to the actual one in his ship. But he was jittery, not at all himself. With any of the others, Trowa would have minded his own business, honest-to-goodness. Last few months he had done just that with Wufei and _that_ seemed to be turning out fine. He just couldn't do that when it came to Quatre, though, even if he had wanted to.

_Wait him out, _he thought as he watched Quatre walk-march in front of him. _Wait for the right moment._

Trowa finally noticed what direction they were going. As far as he knew, the rooms that held any of the bodies were all on different sides of the compound.

"Isn't-?"

"It would make much more sense for me to observe from the Observation center."

_Now _Trowa was really worried. The total lack of affect in Quatre's voice nearly ran him cold.

_You sound like me._

"I thought-"

Quatre snapped at Trowa, not even looking back, "You accompany me to Obs, and I watch your back from there."

_Ok, this is too weird even for me. _Trowa stopped where he was and lingered until Quatre caught on. Trowa almost thought he was planning to keep going, but Quatre finally went still several feet away from him. He just didn't deign to turn around. Lately, he had a this bad habit of speaking with his back to people. Trowa thought it was a businessman thing.

He waited.

"I can't, Trowa."

In Quatre-speak that was "I really, _really _don't wanna do this."

"You're stronger than you think."

"_Allah_, what a cliché!" He turned then. The look on his face made Trowa's mouth run dry.

Quatre was scared. No, he was terrified.

As Quatre shut his eyes tight and he took what appeared to be a few calming breaths, Trowa took a quiet step forward. Then another. He was almost within touching distance when Quatre finally _looked _at him. A strange determination showed through those expressive eyes. Trowa felt himself beginning to fall into them, when, with no warning, Quatre suddenly spun on his heels and took off towards their destination once again.

_Oh, this is one of _those_ times,_ Trowa thought, following a few paces behind. _It's going to take forever to calm him down._ _So, that wasn't the exactly the "right moment," Nanashi._ _You've really gotten bad at this._

When it came to the blond, Trowa may have seemed as if he knew what to do or say but every time he looked into those aquamarine eyes, or got close enough to see the light shimmering off his hair, Trowa felt as if he were floating and falling all at once. He would lose all rational thought. Quatre had led him down the rabbit hole, and there was no turning back. Trowa wouldn't change it for the world. He knew they could never be what they were, but what he _did _have he would cherish. Trowa just thanked whoever was up there listening that he had one more day with the one person he cared for most.

After last Christmas, though, Quatre had been awkward and uncomfortable around him, and for the life of him, Trowa couldn't understand why. Trowa missed him -maybe more than he'd like to admit- but he would wait him out and keep his mouth shut until Quatre eventually decided to open up to him again. He always did. So, knowing he didn't truly understand what was bothering Quatre just yet, he waited to see what he would do next. After what felt like forever, Quatre continued on at a steady pace without further comment.

Things stayed quiet the entire trek to obs. Trowa had never been more uncomfortable. The stillness of _Orion_ _12_ had started to fray even _his _nerves. There was something oppressive about the whole place that he couldn't put his finger on.

_Could be the scores of bodies littering the grounds, _Trowa thought wryly.

When they arrived at the observation desk Quatre made a beeline towards the console across the expanse of the room. Trowa took a minute to do a quick visual inventory. Compared to the rest of the place this room was incredibly dark. Almost pitch black save only for the small lights of the button on the console. The room was about seven hundred feet across and maybe one thousand feet in width. There was only one door and they had just walked through it. The walls, floor, and ceiling looked as if it were one long sheet of metal folded in the shape of a rectangle around them. If Trowa wasn't careful, he could have sworn it was made from Gundanium. All in all, it was an impressive room.

A light flickered bright, illuminating the dark. Quatre had activated the onboard cameras. Trowa put a hand to his forehead, shielding his eyes as he walked forward, all the while squinting at the gigantic screen running along the entire far wall. It showed all twenty camera angles in a row at the top with the selected larger angle showing in close-up for almost the whole of the screen. Quatre, having taken off his suits oversized mitts to show sleek black under-gloves for better access, was moving through the row one by one. When he got to the last camera, he repeated the process. Then ran through them again. He started pushing the button across the screen faster and faster. So fast he worried Quatre would break his finger. At first Trowa didn't know what he was doing, then he saw it.

_God, no wonder._

Quickly, he stepped forward and caught Quatre's wrist. Trowa wrenched his hand away from the controls, and, after what felt like an eternity, the shaking in Quatre fingers finally stopped.

"Where are they?" Quatre whispered, his breathing ragged.

His eyes were on Trowa's hand covering his, but Trowa was staring at the row of small images on the screen. He didn't say anything. There was nothing he _could _say.

The bodies were gone.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

"You want to run that by me again?" My voice came out as a low growl into the speakers of our barracks.

"Gone," Trowa tinny voice - we only had sound in here for some reason- repeated calmly, as if this happened every day. As if several dozen bodies went missing in **space **on a daily basis.

_Not on my watch, they don't._

"We don't know what happened," Quatre said, sounding uncharacteristically close to hysteria, not that I blame him. It _had_ been a hard day.

"We've checked the cameras and…" Quatre trailed off.

Trowa continued for him. "There's a point where each camera goes blank, but at different points in time, and only for about a 75 second interval. When they come back up, the bodies are gone with nothing else in the room having been disturbed."

"What's the gap between camera loss?" I snuck a peak behind my shoulder at the boy. I felt a rush of relief when I saw that my inattention wasn't agitating him in any way.

When the line had come in from _Orion_ _12_, I'd asked Wufei to route them through to the bedroom. I didn't feel comfortable leaving the kid by himself.

I was rewarded for that decision by a thoroughly entertaining display. The boy was peering at the beds curiously and cautiously, like he hadn't seen one before. He crawled toward the head of the one he had just been laying in, his wing poised and taught above him. His yellow-green eyes squinted mistrustfully at the pillow, and with great care he sloooowly brought up a slim finger. And _poked _it. It had been perilously teetering on the edge already, and his gently nudge caused it to fall with a soft "whoomph" in front of his knees. Alarmed, he scampered back to his previous post against the wall, eyes wide. A second later, he was again perched in front of it and had poked the pillow a few more times before turning another brilliant grin in my direction.

I couldn't help myself. I felt the irresistible tug and pull at the ends of my mouth and without my meaning to, I smiled back. By that time, though, he had moved on to the sheets and with thumb and forefinger the boy was ever so daintily, raising the edge to peer underneath.

_We have _got _to think up a better name for him than "the boy", _I thought, watching him sticking his whole head between the sheets.

"Heero?"

From the sound of it, Trowa had been trying to get my attention for a while. I shook myself internally and got back to business.

"Repeat," I said authoritatively.

"There's about five minutes between camera white outs, but…" He paused. I assumed he was trying to find the right words. "Heero, they're not consecutive."

I turned again from watching the boy trying to wiggle his way headfirst, like a worm, underneath the thin white cotton.

"Explain," I ordered.

"One camera will go out in the north sector, then in five, another on the other side of the bunker blinks off."

I waited. There was more to this that I wasn't seeing. I glanced quickly to see the boy's progress. He was having trouble getting the sheet over his wing and it had bunched up around his shoulders, his black-clad rear sticking in the air.

Quatre's voice pulled me back out of it. "… anyone else. Trowa and I are still the only life signatures."

I thought a moment what he might mean then, "No one shows up on the cameras _transporting _the bodies."

"No, sir," Trowa said, managing to _not _sound completely aggravated with me.

"Check the plans for hidden routes or doorways." Even as I said it I knew it was a long shot. Why would they build a hidden anything on their own base? "Also do a full spectrum analysis, not just heat variations."

"Yes, sir."

"Finish ASAP. I want us pulled out and on our way by 1900." I didn't wait for another "yes sir" before I cut our connection.

I was just in time to hear a bang and a squeak. I turned quickly to find the boy had fallen off the bed. The entire upper portion of his body and most of his head was tangled in the sheets which were acting as some sort of odd restraining device. His right arm was stuck in a raised position above him, and the confused and pleading look on what I could see of his face was almost so comical I barely even noticed his wing sticking out of the bottom, the edge feathers waving frantically. Holding back laughter, I moved to untangle the poor thing.

1900 was almost two hours away. By then, if my calculations held, we'd be at Central in time to put together a proper report. If Zechs wanted to investigate more, he could send a team of his bloodhounds in, but as far as I was concerned, we were done there.

Quatre watched with a heavy sense of dread as Trowa's fingers flew over the console, following Heero's useless orders, but this was a reoccurring theme for him lately. Quatre had a crushing pressure in his chest the past few months, maybe years. At first, he thought it was the errands Zechs had been sending him on _still. _Errands that ranged from away missions like this, to smooth talking a senator into vote for for a bill that was supposedly "for the good of the people." He had asked to be used less often, citing familial issues as the reason. Zechs had granted his request readily enough, but when that didn't alleviate this oppressive _weight _over everything, Quatre assumed it was because of the strain of the business world he had been thrust into since. So, the young optimist, always one to try and fix a problem before things worsened, had let Hellena take the reigns while he took care of his homelife. But nothing changed. Nothing had worked.

Now, he would do one last thing to try and salvage not only his life, but his sanity as well.

"Trowa, I-"

"We're almost done," Trowa reassured him. "You heard him, just a few more hours and we get to go home."

_Home, _Quatre thought. An image of the girls beaming faces shimmered to the surface, galvanizing him to say what he was about to.

"It's not that," he said in an even voice. "Trowa… I wanted you to be the first to hear."

"This is your last mission." Trowa's hands had stilled. His entire body looked as if it had turned to marble.

Quatre felt his heart clench. _Of course he would know. _"I'm so s-"

"I'm glad." Trowa swiveled the chair around so he was facing Quatre. Or at least Quatre's legs. He looked up and have him a trademark "Trowa" smile. "You have responsibilities. You're needed."

Before his legs went out, Quatre sank into a kneeling crouch. He leaned his damp forehead against the side of Trowa's knee as he tried to calm himself yet again. Trowa gently rested his hand against the back of Quatre's head.

This was the last straw. It all just felt like too much. "I can't do this anymore," he whispered.

When Trowa said nothing and removed his hand, Quatre peeked at him from behind yellow bangs. He had expected to see reassurance in Trowa's eyes, maybe sympathy, even betrayal -which would have certainly made Quatre feel better about all this- but Trowa didn't seem to be listening anymore. He had again turned his attention back to the screen. Quatre felt a chill on his arms, raising goosebumps.

"Trowa, what is it?" He placed a delicate hand on Trowa's wrist. Quatre almost sighed with relief when he didn't pull away.

"I thought there were only twenty cameras," Trowa said, eyes never leaving the screen.

"What? Of course there are."

Quatre stood and silently counted the small square images laid out in front of them.

_Eiteen. Ninteen. Twenty… Twenty-one_

"That's impossible," he said, before he could stop himself.

Trowa's fingers were flying again, and Quatre recognized that it was the sequence to contact the _Strait_ _and_ _True._

"Wait, first, where is it?" He didn't know why, but he did not want to get Heero involved just yet. At least not without having more to tell him.

Trowa gave him another five second stare before he pulled up a map of _Orion_ _12_. Then he confirmed exactly what Quatre had feared.

"It's the room where…" Trowa wasn't sure how to put it. "The room that housed the Objective."

_That's right, _Quatre thought. _We're not here just to find those stupid tiny suits. That girl had told Heero about some kind of bio-weapon. But instead we find that… thing._

That was when everything turned fuzzy. His face started to burn and his chest felt like it was going to cave in. It wasn't until he felt a cold rush of air run across his arms, that he realized he had taken off the suit. Quatre pushed a bare hand over his t-shit, right above his chest, trying in vain to alleviate some of the building pressure he felt there.

"I can't breath," he managed to whisper before his vision went black.

A/N I'm sorry to leave you off with this short chapter, but it really can't be helped. I love me some cliffies :P Unfortunately, this will have to sustain my lovely readers for a bit longer. The next sections need more tweaking than usual and I'm having a hard time of things lately. It'll be updated in 2 weeks instead of 1. SO... see you in a fortnight.

Reviews are appreciated, my lovelies.


	6. Chapter 6

A/N: 500 hits! Sweetness.

… I still might do more tweaking to this. It's not quiet where I want it to be yet. I don't think I'm all that good on the 3x4 scenes, but I didn't wanna sit on my hands for this chapter any longer. Gotta move along!

*edit* Ummmm, sorry about the typos, lovelies. I tried to go back and fix it. Please, tell me if you see anymore. :D

**Chapter 6**

"The room that housed the Objective," Trowa said then waited for the blowback.

_Because that's what all this is about, isn't it? That boy on his ship._

He felt Quatre tremble beside him, and forced himself to keep his eyes straight ahead. Quatre liked to think things through before reacting. He was the strategist, that's just how his mind worked. Or it used to, in any case.

Trowa distracted himself by studying the camera feed on a built-in smaller screen on the console in front of him. He couldn't see anything strange about it. It was a normal, sterile hallway ending in a single open door, looking just like any of the other hallways they had seen in this place. In fact, it was much more akin to a hospital hallway than a rebel base. Looked kind of nice too, if you were into that sort of thing.

If Trowa were honest with himself, he was of two minds about it. A part of him didn't understand what all the fuss was about. Yeah, this mission had been weird so far, but everything would be explained eventually, he was sure. However, another part of him was becoming increasingly unsettled. This small corner of him mind was telling him that he should stay far, far away from that room. It was trouble, there were no two ways about it.

As his thoughts went in circles, Trowa continued to stare at that black little rectangle. With the uniform grey surrounding it and the red parallel lines, the doorway had a hypnotic quality to it. He continued analyzing it for quite some time, finding himself zoning out. Like an out of body experience, he began to slip under. With no warning, he had the sensation of being _there_ in that hallway. He was walking - no, floating toward it, his feet never touching the ground. Trowa was being pulled, almost seduced by the allure of curiosity. Unable to look away now, even if he wanted to, Trowa could have sworn that for the briefest of moments, he saw something scuttling within the darkness.

The young soldier felt something deep inside him give a low rumbling groan of recognition. He wanted to see inside. Now.

As soon as he heard Quatre's barely audible whisper, Trowa was on his feet in an instant. With no further thought to what he had seen- and felt, he managed to grab Quatre before he fell. It took him a bit to realize that Quatre had removed the upper portion of his yellow suit. At first Trowa could have sworn the man had fainted but Quatre's hands curled against the plastic fabric of his suit, using Trowa for support.

Trowa, for his part, waited breathless, scared for all the wrong reasons. He hadn't held Quatre this close in a long time, suits be damned. That's when the wave of isolation that had been bubbling below the surface, barely held in check, hit him full force. He didn't realize until that second just how lonely he really was. The feeling was absolutely smothering. Quatre looked up at him from his crumpled position against his chest and all notion of time stopped for Trowa. They were suspended in their own little bubble now, untouched by the outside world. The two were mere inches apart. If Trowa moved just the smallest fraction closer…

Thankfully Quatre chose that moment to push him away.

"I can't breath," he said a little louder as if he couldn't believe it.

Trowa had the irrational impulse to smack his own head against the wall. Here Quatre was having a nervous breakdown and Trowa was romanticizing.

All thought of self chastisement fled when next thing Trowa knew, Quatre had stripped the entire suit off. He was down to NP issued thin slacks and undershirt, leaning against the console for support, one hand clasped to his heaving chest.

_Not breakdown. Panic attack._

No time to hesitate. Trowa spun Quatre around and pulled him flush against him, facing away, his gloved hand over Quatre's, the other hand laid gently against his hip as a form of reassurance. Trowa knew what he had to do. Mimicking the action of breath, Trowa tried to calm Quatre's thundering heart.

Chest out. Chest in.

Chest out. Chest in.

Chest out. Chest in.

They stayed motionless like that, Quatre simply letting Trowa hold him. It went on like that forever, until Quatre's voice quavered out, "I think I'm okay now."

"You're an awful liar," he whispered into the blond hair, and felt Quatre shiver against him.

"Says you," Quatre countered, making Trowa smile. The familiar banter was an old joke between them. Before everything changed.

"Do you have your medication on the ship?"

"Uh-huh." Quatre answered, breathless.

"Maybe you should head back."

"Then who will watch you?" he replied stubbornly.

Quatre pulled Trowa's glove off and entwined their fingers. Quatre's hand was wet.

_Is he crying?_

The question was made moot when Quatre maneuvered the hand on his hip to circle Trowa's arm firmly around his waist. Quatre held them there for a few thundering heartbeats.

Trowa couldn't take it anymore. The familiarity of it all was overwhelming. "We can't do this," he reminded him.

"Says you," he countered, with petulance.

Trowa was incredibly grateful that at that moment he still wore his heavy, uncomfortable, _thick _suit to protect him from actually doing anything. Despite his tentative protests, neither of them moved. They fit perfectly.

_Quatre's wife would probably disagree._

The feeling was like a punch in the gut. Blinded by that sobering remembrance, Trowa tried to push Quatre away but only managed to move him in a half spin when Quatre didn't let go of his hand. Quatre, now facing him, was giving Trowa the full force of his stare. It was penetrating and layered in promises that they both knew he couldn't keep, meaningful in a way Trowa hadn't seen in years.

_No. _

Even years from then, Trowa would never be positive if he said it aloud or not. Either way that didn't mater as Quatre eyes filled with bone chilling disappointment. Not letting it go any further, Trowa wrenched their hands apart. Turning bodily away from those damned eyes, he found his glove back on and fastened it securely.

"Later." Trowa couldn't figure out what he meant by that, but he felt he should say _something_. If only to stop the blood from rushing through his ears.

His gaze fell once again on that black doorway. This was when he decided on impulse that that's where he needed to be. He checked the location of the hallway again before he began walking out of the room.

Quatre's question stopped him dead. "Promise?"

Not wanting, or perhaps simply unable to answer, Trowa walked out. He had never heard that voice from Quatre before. It had a wispy almost ethereal quality, as if Quatre was fading away right where he stood. If Trowa were honest with himself, he'd say it scared him much more than the last four hours, but he wasn't so he kept walking.

It took a bit of doing but I had finally gotten the boy untangled and calmed down. Then… my mind blanked. I'm not the greatest conversationalist on my best days, or with my best friends. So what to say to a boy that was showing more and more that he may be somewhat unstable?

Unstable. That was the only answer I could think of. His behavior wasn't normal by any standards. I couldn't be positive whether he was like this before the torture or if that torture had caused his strange behavior, though I was beginning to suspect the former. Obviously something like that could give anyone a new spin on life, but there was something different about him. He was carefree. Much happier than I would ever expect him to be.

_Maybe it's me_, I thought, feeling strangely touched. _He might just feel safe and cared for so-_

_Stop it, _I internally shouted down that insipid inner voice filled with way too much hope. _Don't be ridiculous._

After a few minutes of deafening silence, I decided to try for some conversation again. Unfortunately for the life of me, I couldn't think of one damn thing. Luckily I was saved by a simple realization.

_Needs a name._

I turned to start the hopefully fruitful conversation. The sight that greeted me made me stop and actually _look _at him. The boy was hunched on the forefront of his feet, his wing spread out on the other side of him. His expression was one of rabid concentration as his attention was focused solely on the metal floor. I watched him silently draw invisible, indefinable patterns into it with his finger.

I smiled again. This was a drastic improvement from just 40 minutes before. He was calm and relaxed, not waving around or shivering with fear. He _was_ shivering slightly from the cold, though, which was a bit worrisome. The room was fairly warm.

_Hope he's not getting space freeze,_ I thought and reached for the blanket.

Space freeze is a temporary condition where a person who isn't used to the cold of space becomes overwhelmed by it when it's thrust upon them. It's not a sort of feeling you'd get from chilly weather back on Earth. This cold seeps down to your bones and stays there. It could lead to other more serious conditions if not treated, like migraines, nosebleeds, or sometimes bronchitis even. It usually happened in the environs of a ship, but some cadets or civilians –or even unprepared rookies- would experience it on _Calliope_.

At the mention of Central, my thought returned to our "employer." I wrapped the boy in the blanket as best I could as my mind whirled. Despite my snapping at Wufei, I still wasn't sure how Zechs would react. I had known him for years, yes, I'd even go so far as to call us friends, but I had known the other three pilots for years too and they weren't acting at _all_ like I assumed they would. Quatre was apoplectic, Wufei was catotonic, and Trowa was just… well Trowa.

_Ok, maybe one member of my team is acting rationally, _I thought._ But would Zechs?_

_He'll back me up, of course. He usually does. _

I saw the boy shiver again and suppressed the urge to wrap my arms around his shoulders.

_He's not a kitten, Heero, _I thought, my eyes following the boy's finger as he continued making the patterns against the metal.

I knew all I had to do was ask the medis to check for space freeze and that would take care of that.

All of a sudden, I felt like I'd been punched in the gut. A notion struck me then. A horrible, awful, stomach-twisting, nausea-inducing notion.

Maybe Zechs would want to protect the boy, yes, but in the end would he even have a say?

The medis would be checking the boy's health. Would they stop there? Would they be curious and insist on "checking" for other things? What else would Gabrael have to endure? Would Zechs even have a say in what the medis did to the supposed weapon? I could just imagine The boy's slim malnourished body strapped down to a slab with some cold-hearted lab geek poking and prodding at him in the name of science. The experiments might well be brought on by fear. Fear of the unknokwn in the form of a scrawny kid with wings. And if they were afraid, no telling what they were capable of doing to assuage those unnamed fears.

I remembered the look on the face of the rebel. Her name was Tara. She had been absolutely out-of-her-mind terrified. I thought back to the look in Tara's gold-tinged eyes, hooded behind blond bloody strands of hair as she described this earth-shattering bio-weapon that could destroy entire fleets. She had exaggerated to a greater extent, of course, talking about the end of the world, and how the Reds would rule over all. Obviously, I didn't know she was talking about one little boy.

It was entirely possible the Reds had either created his deformity or simply found him and locked him up. Either way, they had worked him over good. If a bunch of cave-dwelling rednecks were capable of that, what could a fully equipped team of soulless shiny white lab coats with doctorates do? I swore to myself then that I wouldn't let that happen. I could understand them taking some blood or hair samples, _maybe_, but I couldn't just turn the boy over with a pat on the head and the blanket as a souvenir. That would be beyond negligent.

I realized that the boy's finger had stopped moving and looked up. I almost started backwards. He was staring at me. His body had gone completely still, his finger bent slightly backwards against the floor. He wasn't merely looking at me with interest, or staring into space, or smiling in that way he did. He was giving me the blank, emotionless stare of someone who knew something you didn't and was waiting for you to catch up. He turned once again back to his pattern-making, and shifted from foot to foot.

I pushed out the breath I hadn't noticed I'd been holding.

"You know," I said, needing to shake off this unease now hovering over us, "I can't keep calling you 'boy.' Why don't we figure out a name for you?"

He leaned his body back to sit in his rump. His knees were still pressed to his chest, and his mouth turned down into the most adorable little pout. Yes, I said adorable. This in itself was make me forget all about that strange otherworldly look.

"Don't know it," he said, sounding worried.

"It's okay," I murmured, once again trying to placate him. "We'll think of a new one. Just for now."

He seemed to mull this over, biting his bottom lip. "They called me... things."

"We'll think of something else," I said evenly and tried very hard not to show my sudden intense _rage_.

"What?" he asked curiously.

At first I was worried he saw my need to kill but he only continued to gaze at me with a cocking of his head, like a puppy.

_Jesus, first a kitten now a puppy? Pull it together._

"Don't you want to choose?"

He shook his head and pointed at me. Obviously he wanted me to figure out a name for him, but I couldn't think of a single example. I mean, it's not like I had a lot of experience with naming things, much less -possibly- slightly mentally handicapped teenagers who resembled heavenly beings. How do you name an angel?

"Gabriel."

I needed a second for my head to catch up to my mouth. Once it did, I tried to work out why I had said that particular name in the first place. It was biblical, I knew that, but I couldn't quite place it. I would find out later Gabriel was the name of the Messenger of God, an Archangel.

"Gab-ra-el," he said slowly, trying it on his tongue.

He said the word in a stilted tone, enunciating it strangely. Then I came dangerously close to laughing out loud when he squinted his eyes and screwed his face up into a pout again, like he was concentrating really hard.

Finally, he appeared to give up with a huff and said again, "Gabrael."

He flashed me with one of his large grins and said it one last time. Then launched himself at me and hugged me until I could barely breath. I didn't have time to gather my wits about me and hug him back -or blow back a feather that seemed stuck under my nose-, when the recently dubbed Gabrael plopped down beside me, attached himself to my arm, and leaned his head against my shoulder.

I, for all my sudden uprising of paternal instinct, just sat there, frozen and unsure

A/N Yay! A name! This one's the smidge longer to make up for the wait. Hope it was worth it :P Thank you to CircleKV12, who gave me the most blush inducing compliment I've had for the story so far. And of course thank you ClosetGoth for the happy review. Yours always make me giggle :D

Unfortunately, I'm afraid there's gonna be another two week wait again. In the meantime, chocolate fudge kaluha cakes to all who review!


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N Never before seen scene! And Duo! *le gasp***

**Enjoy!**

**Chapter 7**

_What on _Earth_ was I thinking! _Quatre berated himself almost immediately after that door slid closed behind Trowa.

Luckily that very intimate happenstance had managed to sober him up a bit… again. In the back of his mind, he still felt that itching sense of hysteria, but he managed to regain a firm grip on it.

_What is wrong with me? Why do I keep acting like a frightened child?_

Taking a few shuddering breaths, he lowered himself into the only chair available, in no small part comforted by the warmth Trowa left behind.

He had the wherewithal to remember flipping the sound in his helmet to mute before muttering, "Stupid, stupid, _stupid_." On the last word he slammed a small fist down on the console. "How could I-"

He pressed the pads of his hands to his eyes and rubbed until he felt them watering. He knew how this happened and he knew why. His marriage, the beautiful children, the separation he had forced between he and Trowa; it didn't change a thing. Despite Quatre continually trying to convince himself he felt _nothing, _he understood now. He still loved Trowa. No matter how much denial he forced upon himself, he couldn't ignore that simple truth anymore.

Thinking this, he let out a slight self-deprecating laugh. "I've become quite maudlin in my old age."

_We're hardly old,_ he thought as he grabbed the heavy suit off the floor. He took a moment to glare at the color. He really hated that color. A mix between mustard yellow and desert soil. It reminded him of a childhood long since lost.

He shrugged it on and sat again to brood. He had always been very good at brooding. Duo used to say that. After the brunette had moved in almost immediately following the war, Duo had gotten quite vehement about it actually. That daily commentary may in fact have been what kept Quatre's life, and sense of humor going. One incident in particular always made Quatre smile, even then.

"_Poke."_

"_Don't poke me, Duo," Quatre mumbled not bothering to look up from his paperwork strewn across the 18th century mahogany desk._

"_Pooooke," Duo whispered again. He pressed the tip of his finger to Quatre's forehead for a second time -but certainly not the last- as he perched on the edge of that priceless antique._

"_Damnit, Duo!" He pushed -although gently- the boy to the floor, his many papers flying throughout the tastefully decorated English Victorian study as Duo toppled over. "That's _enough! _I am _working_. I understand you needed a place to stay for now to get on your feet but I- _Why are you laughing?" _Obviously his glare wasn't nearly as effective as it usually was because Duo was indeed, quite literally, rolling on the floor laughing so hard he appeared to be having a hard time breathing._

_Quatre collapsed back into his chair in a huff, his arms automatically crossing on his chest._

"_Awwww, c'mon, Kitty-Qat, don't pout," Duo gasped out between giggles. He crawled over to Quatre and put his head on a khaki-clad knee. "I had to do _something, _you know."_

_With a sigh of defeat, Quatre put a hand on top of that toussled yet inexplicably continually soft hair. "Duo, I know you're bored, but, love, can't you find something to do besides _poking_ me? The business is still in it's infancy-" Duo had reared up with no warning, invading Quatre's personal space to put a finger on his lips._

"_Ok, stop," Duo said, suddenly serious. "See, this is what I'm talking about. I can't stand to see you withering away like this, buddy." _

"_Withe- What- You-" Quatre couldn't stop the sputter from eeking out, but he didn't seem to be able to form actual sentences._

"_Gah-gah! Now, you know it's true. You have been working waaaay too hard lately. You need to have _fun_, Q-ball. Ah! See! You're getting annoyed at the nickname thing. Now when was the last time _that _happened?"_

"_Everyday," Quatre puffed out and swatted Duo's hand away. _

_He moved to the small window overlooking his vast property, not really seeing beyond the slightly sinted glass to the exquisite scenery. He just needed to look anywhere other than Duo right then, who for his part, was shooting the Kicked Puppy look Quatre's way. Quatre could feel it burrowing a hole in the back of his neck. _

_He sighed and rested his forehead against the glass, feeling it cool him through. "You say I'm working too hard? Well, someone's got to," he said in resigned defense. His eyes scanned the vast green hills beyond the window. "I'm not a rebel prince anymore Duo. I can't go running off chasing after shadows with you guys at the drop of a hat. But with Wincorp, I can still give something back to the community and not feel so… Useless."_

"_What!" Duo yelped right behind him._

_Quatre tried hard not to jump. Duo moved very fast. _

"_I feel useless,"_ _he said again, turning to give Duo a hard stare. "I was a Gundam pilot, ok, but we all know I was the weakest. With even that gone, I have to find a way to help people-"_

"_So I'm not people?" Duo asked incredulously. "Quatre, you're one of the strongest people I know. You've just lost some perspective."_

_"I don't need perspective," Quatre said, almost sad. "I just need to get back to work." But he made no move to pick up his wayward papers._

_They stood together in tense silence, Duo fiddling with the end of his braid until he suddenly perked up. "Hey, How about you pick up that old violin of yours and bore me to death with some Beethoven or-"_

"_I don't have time!" _

_Quatre leaned against the sill and glared at the wood paneling beneath his feet before he heard a barely audible. "I just miss you, is all." _

_The blond felt like he'd been stabbed in the heart with a rusty steak knife. He whipped his head up, letting his face show the hurt. "Duo, I'm right here."_

"_No, no, no. You're not!" Duo said suddenly ferocious. "You're not the Old Quatre."_

"_We've all changed. The war-"_

"_But not you," Duo hissed emphatically right into his face. He grabbed Quatre's shoulders and gave him one firm shake. "Quatre, I need you. We all do. You are the anchor, probably the only hold we have left." Duo took a moment to stare at him, and Quatre found himself fascinated by what he saw there. Anger, fear, and incredulity all rolled up into two indigo shadows. "You don't understand how important you are, do you?"_

_All Quatre could manage was a slow shake of his head._

"_Quatre, you're our humanity." Duo's scarred hands held his head still when he tried to shake it again. "No matter what happened to us, no matter what we did, you were untouchable. If you fall through now, we're all lost."_

"_I'm not fall-"_

_Duo interrupted yet again. "But you _are._ You're not you anymore. You've gotten all… business-ey and broody. You don't laugh, you barely smile. Not a _real_ smile. When was the last time you went out with Trowa? Took in a good movie? Hell, even a bad movie. Admit it, Qat, when was the last time you had fun?"_

"_Oh, Duo," Quatre said, his voice breaking near the end. Feeling inexplicably tired, he leaned against Duo's shoulder as his friend simply held him. "I miss you, too" _

Back in the empty, darkened observation center, in a bunker far and away from his home, Quatre felt as if that moment came from another life, when he truly was someone else entirely. They were all so young.

"I miss you, too," Quatre whispered and let his voice echo across the metal surrounding him.

He promised himself then and there that he would visit as soon as his time allowed. No matter how much it pained him.

Instinct gripped him then, and with an inner welling of now familiar fear, Quatre flipped on his mic and audio.

"-tre!"

"Trowa what is it? What's-"

"Are you ok?" Trowa asked urgently, or what passed for urgency when it came to Trowa Barton.

"Yes, Trowa, I'm fine. Now, what's happened?"

"The door."

No matter how much Quatre had managed to piece his composure together in the last few minutes, he felt a part of him shatter when he turned to the screen.

"It's closed."

**A/N Reviews are appreciated, especially critiques. I like to know what I'm doing wrong every once in a while. :P**

**I know Quatre was a little hysterical before. All this back and forth in his own head is intentional. Hopefully this makes up for it a bit.**

**I'm rewatching the Gundam Wing episodes to try to make it all seem more realistic, and it's given me some ideas. But the next few chapter updates might be sporadic. Among other reasons, it's because I've hit a small rut again. I know what's going to happen but actually putting it into a cohesive story is proving problematic.**

**Also, to all you Harry Potter fans out there, keep an eye out for the next chapter in my insane Harry fic, **_**Dissociation**_**.**


	8. Chapter 8

A/N I'm back, ya'll! This isn't as perfected as I'd like it to be… But yeah, here you go!

*update* MOST typos fixed. If you see any more, please tell me.

Chapter 8

_You shouldn't have left him alone,_ Trowa thought almost immediately after the door to Obs slid shut behind him.

He was about to turn back to go through the door, but stalled. The man would probably just make him leave again.

With that belief firmly in place, he set off. Every once in a while he would glance in a room to see puddles, pools of blood in a fair few of them, but no bodies. Some rooms were so covered with blood you could hardly tell what color the walls were before. He also noticed a disturbing trend in the living quarters. There were no personal effects. No pictures or even individualized decorations. From the walls to the way the beds were made, everything looked identical. Uniform.

After encountering the same thing room by room, the inspection became a mechanical process, allowing Trowa's mind wander. As was so often the case, his mind wandered to the blond he had left behind. He replayed the scene over and over in his head and all he could come up with was that the whole thing was just plain bizarre. Almost as soon as he had given up hope of Quatre ever accepting him as someone to be close to again, Quatre decided to practically jump Trowa right there in a dark room. It was beyond strange. Especially when he had been so panic-stricken only moments before. Trowa couldn't remember ever seeing Quatre like that before.

_That's not entirely true,_ he thought as he jumped an especially messy splotch of red in the middle of a hallway.

If Trowa were honest with himself, he _had_ seen Quatre act that way, only once. _The second the strip turned pink._

***Over Five years ago***

Immediately after the doorbell rang, Trowa knew something was wrong. It had been raining almost nonstop for four days, and an hour ago the storm had reached its peak. No sane person would be out in that mess, especially not in the middle of the night. Trowa just hoped it wasn't some crackhead asking him to buy an alarm clock again.*

Lightning flashed as Trowa put down the kitchen knife he had been using to cut the tomatoes for dinner and moved into the small living room. By this time he had been living in a small apartment in the mid-lower slums for about a month now. It had a separate bedroom and a fully functioning bath/shower washroom. Not to mention a kitchen he didn't feel _too _cramped in. He was lucky to find something this cheap with basic amenities let alone a fully equipped apartment. But every night when he heard the sirens and sometimes even gun fire, old memories would resurface and he would lose yet another night of sleep. He was just grateful Quatre didn't know where he was living now or the blond would have insisted on a change of address.

At least that's what he assumed, but when he opened the front door and a soaked, shaking, thoroughly freaked Quatre stood on his threshold he began rearranging his assumptions a bit.

They stood there for what felt like forever. Until Quatre let out a half strangled "She-" but he couldn't seem to get out much more than that.

Without saying anything Trowa reached out a hand to lightly grasp Quatre's elbow and lead him inside. He left the dripping wet Quatre sitting on his couch -he never liked the old thing much anyway- as he collected a cold soda, a few towels off the top on the toilet and a comforter from his closet. He also grabbed his first aide kit, just in case. When he made it back to the blond, Quatre hadn't gotten much better. In fact he was shaking worse than before. His hands were balled into the fabric of his soaked pants, his eyes staring down at them, unseeing. Trowa draped th largest of the towels over Quatre's shoulders then set about drying him off. He needed out of those wet clothes, but Trowa doubted Quatre would be any help with that. The man was in shock.

Finished drying what he could, ending with Quatre's feet, Trowa set the towel aside and the shaking subsided just slightly. Trowa said Quatre's name, barely a whisper. When he got no response he said it again louder.

Quatre jerked violently and stared down at Trowa with the brightest blue eyes he had ever seen.

_I'd almost forgotten._

He slid a hand down Quatre's cheek, telling himself it was to wipe away the damp still left there. Then those blue, endless eyes closed and he _nuzzled_ Trowas hand. All his tension drained away and he slid in boneless heap right into Trowas lap. At first Trowa couldn't move. He couldn't think. Couldn't breath. As if pulled by strings his arms jerked up and around the lax shoulders. He took a few solidifying puffs of air and started shifting them so their position wasn't as awkward. Once they were sufficiently settled, he cleared his throat and started what he knew would be a difficult conversation.

"What-"

"Please don't," came the trembling voice somewhere from under his chin

He tried to pull back just to look at him again, but Quatre's arms moved to pull him back with unexpected force.

He spoke in a firm but soft tone. "You came here for a reason-"

But then he couldn't speak anymore because Quatre was _kissing _him.

***Back on _Orion 12_***

Trowa shook his head to dislodge the memory. As he started walking again, though, he couldn't stop the bits and pieces forcing themselves on him in the present. He remembered how Quatre tasted, how he sounded, how he felt in his arms that night… and the next morning. But the strongest memory of those five hours was when Quatre had told him Helena was pregnant.

The horrible thing about all this was that Helena Strait was actually a wonderful woman. Perfect match for the heir of the Winner name. As hard as Trowa tried to bring himself to hate her, he couldn't manage it. The charities she invested in weren't just for show. She didn't play for the crowds. Her interests ranged from curing AIDS, to giving tampons to young women in poor countries, to funding scientific advancements for the good of the public. Trowa had known they would do great things together.

She certainly didn't marry him for the money. Her family could be dated back to the medieval era in ancient England apparently. Medieval royalty was a difficult thing for Trowa to compete with. So he hadn't tried. He had told Quatre he understood. That it was a great responsibility. That Quatre would be a great father. All of which was true.

Yes, he had seen Quatre in some dire straits, mentally, but the way the man was acting now was something altogether different. He was frazzled, crazed, desperate.

Trowa finally rounded the Hallway, a few feet away from his destination.

_You shouldn't have left him alone. _

He was about to turn around – Quatre needed him – when he saw the door. The closed door

***This is a scene break***

"Trowa, come back," Quatre said through the speakers after they had both stood in silence for far too long

Trowa ignored the command. "Did you open the door?"

He took a little longer to answer than Trowa would have liked. "No, and I wasn't watching. I was getting redressed." He sounded so scared.

"What do the cameras show?"

"There are no cameras or sensors in that room; I already checked. Trowa, _please _come back."

Trowa almost listened, almost returned, but he couldn't. Something told him to hold back. A small niggling voice that he hadn't felt since the last **real** war, was urging him on. Telling him that he _had _to see what was in there. This was very important.

_"What are you doing?"_ Quatre shouted at him in Aramaic.

He was walking down the hallway. "Trust me," Trowa said.

"_...husbunal laaho wa mnamal wakeelu alal laahe tawakkalna... husbunal laaho..."_

When he realized that the lyrical murmuring Quatre had been reduced to was not a sign of insanity but an old Arabic prayer for safety, Trowa tuned him out. He was a man on a mission.

That small voice came creeping up on him then. An instinct he had thought he'd lost so long ago.

_**You won't like what's in there,**_ it seemed to sing at him.

Trowa's hand hovered over the button that would slide open the clean, white, mechanized door._ But I have to know._

He waited just a moment to see if maybe that Instinct would answer him. Then felt ridiculously silly. He pressed the command button and the door seemed to swell open.

Even through that helmet that wonderfully familiar and warm smell washed over him. It coated everything. It invaded in his mouth, stuck to his skin beneath the suit, wrapped itself around him like a warm blanket. The room was black as pitch, but his sure hands found the console for the lights soon enough. For less than a minute, Trowa thought that a crew had come through to give the drab walls a much needed going over.

_**That's not a paint job.**_

He was seeing red. Literally. The four walls had been covered in a dusty reddish-brown. He knew though, that it used to shine crimson. Only a complete fool would mistake it for anything but blood.

_**Up high.**_

Trowa turned his eyes upward. Even_ he_ was disturbed by the whimsically macabre chandelier. A giant leathered mass hanging from a metal chain. Human skin had been sewn together in a quilt of light and dark. It was a bloated balloon of human skin dripping sanguine water. As if on cue, one of the stitches ripped open, and something fell through. A mangled finger.

SHHhhhi.

Trowa had the sense of pulling off a creative back flip before the entire thing came apart. A surreal red waterfall came crashing down. The front of his suit would have been fully covered if he hadn't already been seven feet away. As it was, his anti-grav boots were being soaked by the outpouring puddle.

Trowa finally noticed that Quatre had gone silent.

"Quatre, say something."

No answer.

"Quatre!"

_**He was watching from the camera.**_

By the time he made it back to Obs, Quatre's lips were turning blue.

_* This actually happened to me._


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N Very little changes made. This is one of my favorite chapters.**

**Oh! And thank you so, so much to all who reviewed. You guys keep this going.**

Chapter 9

_I will not kill the senator._

_I will not kill the senator._

_I will not sneak into the senator's bedroom at night and smother him with his orthopedic pillow._

Oh, yes. Zechs Marquise, or Milliardo Peacecraft, the brother of the Beloved Mother Queen, as she had come to be called, was having homicidal urges in regards to the Senator from the venerable New Sanc Kingdom.

"I don't know how things are run here, Monsieur Peacecraft," the vile old man droned on. "But _Calliope_ is woefully undermanaged. I can see now why Her Majesty has asked me to step in to see to matters. Now this is..."

_She did not, you shriveled raptor! _Zechs thought with venom. I_ have to babysit _you.

Zechs tried very hard to remember how he had been wrangled into this.

_Because your wife is forcing you to get "reacquainted" with your lovely, __**pink **__baby sister. And that apparently involves watching her sniveling senior citizens on an almost weekly basis._

He squelched the need to shove the rapier at his side up the Senator's-

"Don't you agree, Monsieur?"

Zechs smiled graciously and nodded. Satisfied, his _guest_ turned to walk ahead once again.

_Maybe Heero is right, _he thought as he followed Senator Aldrich through the Civilian Center, a mismatch of shops and entertainment of all sorts. _Maybe I _have _been playing the politics a little too much lately._

Zechs noticed his own personal aide, Edvard, walking towards them at a harried pace. He looked highly harassed.

_Huzzah! I am set free!_

Ever the gentleman, he politely pardoned myself, and pulled Edvard aside, trying not to seem desperate. "Save me," he whispered, conspiratorially.

Edvard did not smile. _Oh, good. A very hard problem that needs my expertise to remedy._ Zechs was practically giddy.

"The _Strait and True_ has just docked, sir."

That was Quatre's ship. "Where are they?"

"That's the thing, your highness," Edvard pressed on.

Zechs did not bother reminding him how he hated that title. The poor boy would have enough to deal with that day.

_I stopped being royalty the day my family burned. _Zechs registered that Edvard was still talking. "What do you mean they won't leave the ship?!"

"Problem, Monsieur?" Oh yes, the raptor was still there.

"No, Senator, you need not worry." Zechs glared at Edvard once Aldrich had turned again to whisper, "What's going on?"

"Well, your high- I mean, sir," he amended when Zechs' glare turned vicious. "It seems that Mister Winner was rushed to the med deck, with Mister Barton at his side."

_What?!_

_"_However, Mister Chang ordered everyone to leave the dock, and that he and Mister Yuy would only see you. Something about special provisions."

"It appears I have a personal matter to attend to, Senator," Zechs said, automatically transforming into the proper host. "Edvard will show you to your rooms."

He was finally rid of the decrepit excuse for a man. Although he did feel sorry for his aide, he was much more worried for his soldiers and, yes, friends. Zechs gave Edvard quiet instructions to meet him in his office once he had dealt with everything, and walked brusquely towards the hangar bay with deadly intent. He didn't feel the need to go to medical. Trowa would make sure Quatre was safe. The sight that greeted him upon arrival, did not improve his mood.

Wufei, in all his bluster, was standing in front of the double doors in nothing but his NP issued black pants and undershirt, arms crossed, a scowl adorning his Asian features.

An irate Captain was screaming in his face to no apparent avail. "If you don't open those doors now, boy—!"

"You'll what?" Zechs asked icily, getting their attention.

He had yet to meet this particular soldier, but he already hated him.

"Sir, this boy-"

"That _boy_ is Chang Wufei, and he has a higher rank than you could ever dream of achieving." Zechs wasn't usually this coarse, but he was confused, angry and, if he were to be truthful with himself, a little scared. His instincts had yet to desert him.

The name had the desired effect. Automatically, the Captain became the picture of the reverent servant. He turned to Wufei, almost bowing. "I had no idea. If there's anything I can do to make up for my behavior-"

"You can leave." Wufei's voice was even, his eyes cold.

For his own safety, the Captain did make a hasty retreat.

_Smart man, _Zechs thought. He brought his attention back to Wufei when he heard a sigh and soft thump. Wufei had slumped to the floor, one hand rubbing his eyes. He looked so tired.

"Busy?"

Wufei only replied with a bitter laugh.

The prince knelt to his eye level. "What is going on?"

It took him a moment to answer. "You wouldn't believe."

"Quatre?"

"Heart attack." He finally looked up. "He's lucky we had nitro. Might not have made it."

_Trowa must be having a meltdown. _"You look awful."

"Well, I try."

_My, oh, my! I think I hear the temperature dropping in Hell. He actually made a joke._

"Was there a weapon or has this entire thing been a waste of time?" _As I predicted._

"You should get Heero," he hardened, returning to business.

"That I will do, but first..." Zechs straightened, reaching out a helping hand.

Wufei batted it away and stood on his own. "Just see to them." He gestured to the doors behind him. "I'll be in my room."

_Them? Who is "them?"_ Before Zechs could form his thoughts into a coherent sentence, Wufei was already out of sight. _Yeah, that blossoming friendship is really going well._

He turned back to the doors, instincts churning into hyperdrive. Melodramatic as ever, he pushed them both open at the same time, marching a confident stride, only to find no one there. Just the small, technological mini-ship of Quatre's was sitting in the hangar.

_How anticlimactic._

He was about to make his way in when Heero stepped out. He had blood on him.

"It's not mine," Heero assured from the doorway.

"Alriiight," Zechs said, speaking slowly. He had a feeling he was in for a doozy of a tale.

Not one to mince words, Heero nodded behind him and retreated into the back. Zechs mentally readied himself, thinking they had another hostage. Interrogations were never pretty.

_Hence the blood, _he thought as he followed Heero.

To say he was surprised to hear Heero muttering like a crazy man in the back of a darkened bedroom was a woeful understatement.

"It'll be okay. I'm here. Didn't I promise no one would hurt you? Come on. He's a friend."

It was much too dark to see much in the small room but he could tell that someone was standing in front of Heero, said soldier facing away. Zechs was feeling cramped. He flipped on the lights.

Heero swiveled quickly, "Get back, Zechs. I'll call you when..."

The rest of his words were drowned out by a strange whooshing sound in Zechs inner ear. He felt like all his blood was rushing to his brain. He didn't know how long he was standing there staring like a simpleton. His eyes eventually focused away from the creature and onto Heero again.

_What is this? _Zechs couldn't remember if he had said it out loud or not, but Heero seemed to get the picture.

"His name is Gabrael. He needs our help.

******This is a scene break*****

Coma.

That simple word sent Trowa reeling. It was inconceivable. The man he loved was actually in a coma. Nothing else mattered except that. No one else existed.

"He was deprived of oxygen for too long," Iria continued, voice near a whisper. She was tired. She had been working non-stop since the _Strait and True_ had docked.

"I started CPR almost immediately," Trowa heard himself say, just as quiet.

"Trowa, your quick thinking may have been what saved him. In fact, I'm sure of it." She began to speak with more strength. "You saved my little brother's life."

"Life?"_ You call that a life?_ He continued to stare past the large reinforced glass window built into the wall that looked into Quatre's room.

The Life Preserver. That, Trowa vaguely recalled, was the name of the whirring machine Quatre was attached to. The mechanized sustaining unit was almost elegant, right down to the breathing mask strapped to Quatre's face. Trowa had always admired the things Quatre's company had produced. Instead of the bulky, rectangular oval of the previous design, the pod itself was a rounded triangle. The wires coming out of the back spawned upward in an angular pattern and came down to connect to several machines mounted against the wall, creating a haunting imitation of wings. The connected machines basically looked like two simple, silver boxes on either side of the LP. If something needed to be changed inside, all you had to do was slide up the outer panel. Quatre had tried to explain in the past that the entire design was better for the flow of certain fluids that were siphoned into the body, but Trowa had never listened.

_I should have, _he thought somewhere in the back of his mind, _I should have committed to memory everything he ever said to me._

"There's a very good chance that this may not be permanent," Iria said for what must have been the sixth time. "He may make it through this."

_I should have told him. I should have done something. I don't deserve him. _"I want to call her." His eyes were glued to a blinking light above Quatre's head.

Iria didn't know what to say. She recognized the beginnings of shock when she saw it, and it made her more uncomfortable than she would like to admit. She was much more accustomed to Trowa as the stoic soldier. _Milliardo, where are you?_

"She deserves to know," he said, still staring through the window. Without thinking, his fingers clenched in a fist.

"Why don't we wait to see how he is by the end of the week?"

"He could be dead!" Trowa didn't even notice he was shouting.

"Yeah, I really need to be yelled at right now."

He finally turned to face her. _God help me, _he thought watching her calm face. _She sounds just like him. _Her azure eyes were bright with unshed tears. Her shoulders squared, defiant to any obstacle, any fear she may be feeling. She had developed signs of her age in the last few years. Her blond hair -which mostly hid the almost indiscernible lines of grey running through that he could see only because she was so close- had come out of the tight bun and now hung limp, caressing her chin. Her eyes had acquired crows feet and she had filled out her green doctor scrubs with wiry muscle. Yes there were obvious changes, but she looked just as Trowa remembered. _She _looks _just like him._

Next thing he knew, she was hugging him. Keeping him from falling. Reminding him that she was losing someone too. Reminding him how Quatre was gone.

**A/N Sooooo, yeah. Reviews are like choclate covered rainbows dipped in butter! Spread the love. **


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N ****Thank you for the lovely review, color2431. It's because of that, that I was even able to finish this chapter.**

**Warning: A curse word, creepy workouts and too much talking.**

Chapter 10

Zechs refrained from simply knocking back the scotch in his hand and sipped it easily. It slid down his chest but didn't have the warming affect it usually did. He was down to his third one by the time Heero finished his debrief. He settled himself a bit more comfortably against his armchair and glanced up at Heero who was behind his desk -_Still-_ staring out the wide window that looked out at space. The man wasn't nearly as comfortable in the office as he usually was. On any other day he would have lounged on the couch. Since they arrived he hadn't taken his eyes off the stars except to glace in the direction of Zech's bedroom, where the… boy was sleeping peacefully in his plush king-sized bed.

Gabrael had been taken care of. The new doctor, Iria Winner-Obama — Don't think Zechs hadn't pulled a few strings for that— said he was a completely normal sixteen year old young man... with wings. Heero had insisted that he stay for the medical inspection, glowering at the attendants while simultaneously comforting his new charge. Zechs knew what Heero was afraid of. He also knew he couldn't promise anything, but for now Gabrael was in the next room, fully clothed and shivering. Heero's initial diagnosis of space freeze was confirmed by Iria.

_Enjoy the comforts while it lasts, kid. _All he could manage to verbalize, however, was, "A skin balloon?"

"That's what Trowa said." He was standing ramrod straight, muscles taut.

_You're not nearly as veiled as you think you are, Yuy. _"And you didn't check this why?"

He finally looked at Zechs to give him an unforgiving glare. "Quatre was having a heart attack. We gave him some nitroglycerin and put him in the cryostasis-"

"Cryostasis?"

"Trowa said Quatre had them installed in case something ever happened," he ground out tersely between clenched teeth.

Zechs was embarrassed he was forced to hold back an appreciative whistle. _I should really stop hanging out in the officers mess._

"We put him in cryostasis, and used almost all our energy and fuel getting here in less than three days. We were lucky there were enough reserves."

Zechs finished his glass and poured himself another, then filled up a second for Heero, no ice. "Drink it," he ordered.

Heero scowled at him, but walked over to take it from him. Zechs was worried he'd break the tumbler, his grip on it was so tight. He watched as Heero let the liquid barely touch his lips then allowed himself a more hearty swallow. "That _is _good," he muttered, almost to himself.

Zechs was relieved when Heero finally took his usual seat on the couch across from him.

He was about to ask him one of the myriad of questions he possessed, when his unexpectedly longtime friend piped up. "How's the wife?"

"Surly." Zechs hesitated, before continuing. "She thinks we should adopt."

"You don't." It wasn't a question.

He felt weird talking about something so mundane with a mythological being sleeping in the next room, but Zechs pressed on. "Of course not."

"You want an heir." If there was even a hint of irony in Heero's voice, Zechs would have popped him.

"I know," he admitted. "It sounds insane."

"For you? Not really." He managed a small smile and leaned back.

_At least he's relaxing... the smug bastard._

"You're holding out for another option." Heero gave him a meaningful look over the glass.

_Fuck._

It took Zechs at least two minutes to ask quietly, "How long have you known?"

"Since it started."

"Why didn't you-"

Luckily the conversation was, for the moment, postponed when a thump from the bedroom sent Heero running.

_Maybe he _is _from heaven._

Quietly, Zechs followed him. Heero was kneeling beside the bed, appearing to check the boy's head wound. Gabrael had thumped his wing against the wall. He was having a nightmare and looked even thinner in the scrubs that Iria had given him. Zechs caught himself staring. Heero actually waved him back into the office and joined him a moment later.

"What do you make of him, Heero?" Zechs had never seen him this way. He couldn't really describe the strange behavior in his soldier, but it left the prince unsettled.

After a time, Heero finally seemed to notice Zechs had actually spoken and asked, "What do you mean?"

"Do you think he had something to do with what happened in that room?" It was a redundant question, but Zechs wanted to hear his answer.

"Of course," Heero grunted as he threw himself once again on "his" couch.

Zechs almost let out a relieved sigh. At least his friend hadn't lost _complete_ control of his mental faculties.

"But," he continued. "I don't think he caused it."

_Tread very carefully here. _Zechs structured his reply with caution, sliding back into his chair. "What Trowa saw, I've never heard of anything like it. In all the years of war, I've never heard of something that... grotesque."

"You saw how scared Gabrael is. He didn't _cause it. _But I think he witnessed who did."

"So you're thinking what? A rogue Red?"

"Maybe." He looked unsure, however.

Zechs held back the urge to sigh and tipped his back his drink more than was seemly. There was something about this that didn't make sense, a web to which he was missing the connective strings. It was frustrating. "And you didn't notice anything strange when you were in there before?"

Heero was just shaking his head when a thought occurred to Zechs. "When Towa was debriefing you, did he mention the body or... the... uh, appendage?"

"No, and I can promise you I didn't see the Balloon when I was in there."

"And Wufei?"

"Not sure," Heero shrugged, getting more comfortable against the pillows. He took a healthy swig of the amber liquid and held it out for more. Only after Zechs had filled it did he continue. "I haven't spoken to him since he left the ship."

"Maybe that was a mistake."

Heero scoffed. A strange sound coming from his friend, and Zechs resisted the urge to blink at him a few times. That was new. Heero hadn't gotten along with Wufei for a while but he had never shown any sort of derision like that.

"He's a big boy."

Zechs just swirled his drink for a few moments letting the silence build, not feeling the need to ask the question aloud.

Heero sighed, leaning forward. "He wanted to keep it from you," he said, staring down at the almost empty drink he clasped in both hands.

"What part, exactly?"

"… Everything, I think. But certainly the boy." He jerked his chin in the direction of Zech's bed unnecessarily.

"I see."

"I don't," Heero said frankly. "You two have butted heads-" Zechs allowed himself a moment to appreciate Heero's gift of understatement. "-but in eight years he has never wanted to keep mission specifics from you. At least, he hasn't said it aloud."

"What are you saying, exactly, Heero?"

Heero let himself finish his last drink of the night before he replied. "I don't know… if I can trust him anymore."

***** This is a scene break*****

Façade.

Charade.

Sham.

Wufei had lapsed back into the habit of making his lists in his head. A habit he seemed to be enjoying more frequently. In the last two years it was the only thing that would calm him. The only thing to keep his internal critics at bay. He had once again found his way to the gym. With each word he added to the list he would punch up the barbell hard.

Fiction. _Punch_

Pretend. _Punch_

Act. _Punch_

_Stop it, _his critics screamed at him,_ You're not fooling anyone._

His chest was starting to burn, but he kept lifting. _Calliope's _gym was dark, which is how he liked it. He had turned off every other light in the room except for the row directly above his station. He hated it to be too bright when he worked out. This was the time where he could tune everything out. Where he could drift away with his lists. The room was empty, the only sounds were the sharp exhales of breath with every lift.

Lie. _Punch  
_

Mislead. _Punch_

Deceive. _Punch_

_You're pathetic. They can see right through you._

His shirt was discarded by his feet. He had taken it off once the rubbing of the soaked cloth was getting too distracting. That was the whole point of this. Discard distractions, focus on what was important. The only thing that was important.

Except for the pause to remove the wife beater, he hadn't stopped from the moment he stepped into the room. He didn't bother taping his hands. He never did. He'd gone straight for the larger punching bags. Somehow the chain broke. Without missing a beat, he went right at the dumbbells, but that soon lost its charm. He needed something heavier. Harsher. Now he was laying stretched on the synthetic leather benchpressing 600 lb. weights above his head. He had moved far away from the large mirror/wall on the other side of the room. He didn't want to see himself. He'd been working out for hours now. The only thing he used to keep time were his lifts and lists.

Untrue. _Punch_

Deceit. _Punch_

Fabrication. _Punch_

_Yeah, they can see right through you, coward._

His movements became harder, faster. With each lift, the barbell almost leaving his hand.

Imitation. _Punch._

Trickery. _Punch._

Fraud. _Punch._

_And guess what? No one gives a fuck._

Fake-**Wham!**

Wufei had thrown the weight as hard as he could to smash the glass mirror. He sat, straddling the bench, and stared at the shards that stared back from across the room.

**A/N Bunnies are cute but reviews are better!**


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N Very, very few changes done to this chapter. I love it so! And thank you to all who have reviewed. Hopes you likes it.**

Chapter 11

Helena Strait was incensed.

"_How dare they?!"_

"Now, Lena," Molly said, ready to leap out of the way on any breakable projectiles. "It's just words. Remember what Doctor McBride said about your blood pres-" She was prepared to jump out of the way of the many magazines Helena hurled at her but they landed harmlessly at her feet.

"Do you see what they're saying about us? About _him_"

Molly had yet to read from any number of tabloids that seemed to have attached themselves to the Winner-Straight family like the leeches that they were. She had gotten her boss coffee like usual, grabbed a fruit yoghurt from the Ethiopian vendor on the way and made it to the office in time to see her dear boss and very good friend Lena nearly starting a fire with her rage.

"Oh God," Helena continued. "The girls. Molly, call the school, have them remove the children from class immediately."

"No, I will not! Now, calm down." They had been friends for years. About as long as she had been Helena's secretary and assistant.

"How can I stay calm when they're calling my husband the 'queer corporate?'"

"What?" Molly sat in front of the pile of newspapers and magazines to read the headlines "Oh! Oh... my."

_Quatre the Corporate Queer_

_Is He Really "Strait?"_

_Homosexual Honeymooners_

"'Oh, my? _Oh, my?!_" Helena shouted. "Someone is attacking my family and you say 'oh, my?'"

Molly had never seen her this way. The "fish papers" as she called them, had never gotten under her skin this much.

"Please, call the school," Helena practically begged.

"Sweetie, it's just nonsense. The girls can handle this."

"They won't understand!"

"About how their _Dad _is not a _gay?" _Molly asked incredulously. "They're nine. I think they can grasp the concept."

"They said there was proof," Helena sounded desperate.

_I see,_ Molly thought, relieved. She pulled Helena down to sit in front of her, and looked her straight in the eye. "Honey, your husband, the father of your children, the love of your life, your perfect match is not gay."

"But the papers-"

"Fuck the papers!" she shouted. She grabbed one of the offensive newspapers, ripped them in two and threw them in the air. The pieces fell slowly, refusing to give in to the drama. "Fuck the tabloids! And fuck your parents!"

Helena was quiet for minute, twisting a long, brown curl around her finger. Her family had never been supportive of her decision to marry Quatre. They had portended that it would end in heartbreak. They warned her that she was not only entering into eternal bondage with a known Gundam pilot and soldier, but a suspected homosexual. Helena had assured them that despite the clothes and the kindness and the soft voice, he really _had_ been the one to knock her up. Molly had been hearing about it for years. She was really getting sick of it.

"But-"

"No, buts!" Molly countered. "You are Helena Strait. The most powerful woman in the political, corporate and televised world."

Helena found herself pouting. "Actually, dear, The Mother Queen-"

"Fuck the Queen!" Heresy would not deter her from her pep talk. "You could topple her in a second. You survived through the Rose Years, the Mini-government, twins, and over fifteen years of reigning presidency of a multinational and interstellar business. A mogul at 17! I will be damned if I let you fall apart on the word of a few bottom-feeding pieces of horse shit."

Helena was beaming at her. "It _is_ a bit silly, isn't it?"

"Yes!" Molly shouted triumphantly. "Finally a breakthrough."

"I think I'll be okay now," she assured, albeit when she stood she seemed shaky.

Molly nodded and started to gather the tattered papers to throw away. "You want me to call the girls? Maybe hearing their voices will help you feel better."

"No, I don't want to worry them. But do call Henry and tell him to take them home immediately after their classes." She began to straighten out her disheveled appearance. She smoothed her blouse and pulled at her long, thin pencil skirt. "No television or Internet, at least not until I get home. And no trips to the ice-cream parlor, either. I'll take them myself."

"I will do that, ma'am." She rose, arms full. "Your ten o'clock is waiting out front."

"My ten o'clock?" She hooked her glasses back on — at some point they had fallen off in her rant — and picked up one of the many reports on her desk.

"The people from Aldrich's team? I told you yesterday-"

"That they want my sponsorship." Helena finished, resigned. "Why that brute of a man wants my help is beyond me."

"It's an election year," Molly declared as she wrapped the papers in a nice ball. "He needs a political makeover. Some puffy liberal name attached to his will soften the blow on his protestation of the Queen. Who better than the woman that started it all?"

She gave Molly an amused look over her green-black rims. "Send his people in, please, without the color commentary."

Melinda Coffins, Molly to her friends, gave a dramatic bow, as much as her now crushed bundle would allow, and bounced out of the penthouse office. The regal Strait Enterprises was a place she had never dreamed of working in. As a kid from L2, it was hard to get even some semblance of a job, but she had gotten lucky. Her story was not unique, however. She had come from a good family, medical crusaders, whose lives were torn apart by the war. One year they went to L2 to try to help with an epidemic that had ravished it for more than a year. She had gotten separated from them in a raid and had to live on her own wits. She joined the Saracens. A local girl gang that was anything but meek. She paid her way through by being the lookout and later the distraction. After the fall of her "sisters" in the gang, she did the only thing she could. Hopped a plane. Queenie, their leader, died of some kind of lung disease, and Molly took the first chance she got to leave. She was lucky that OZ didn't do regular checks of civilian cargo. She could read, but it didn't help much except to tell her the prices they could never afford. Not much need for literacy in Hell, as she called her former home.

_If that's Hell, I'm in Heaven, s_he thought for the millionth time, sliding in her black cushy armchair behind her desk.

She took a moment to look around her before she would buzz in whatever toady Aldrich had sent. _Let the bastard stew._ Her "office" was a long hallway connecting Helena's office and an elevator at the other end, the only way in or out. The Hall had been designed to intimidate. As the elevator doors opened, you were treated to an long room that by its very design made it seem far longer than it actually was. As you walked in, you experienced a sense of vertigo. Arches that were made to become slightly bigger with each one you passed and were covered in intricate golden molds of angels and mythological symbols. The pure, shining gold was stark against the black marble that made up the walls, ceiling and floors. The architecture was so perfectly designed that when you arrived to the office door, it was 20 feet high as opposed to the 6 foot door at the other end. There were really only seven arches in all but it looked infinite, an optical illusion caused by the slight ripples carved from the marble.

Helena's mother had designed it. Molly loved to watch the faces of the people that walked towards her from the other end. It was a progression of haughty —most of the time— to confusion to outright awe.

_Speaking of, s_he buzzed her undersecretary and was answered promptly. "Send him in Stella."

She pushed a number of keys on the board built into her extravagant desk, and her 30 inch computer screen showed the elevator interior. The man coming up was exactly what she had expected. A middle aged dork in a three piece suit, slick-backed hair, a leather briefcase and a smug smirk that she wanted to smack right off. _They really think she's desperate, don't they?_

Before, he stepped out, Helena's voice rang through her ear phone she had just put on. "Do me a favor and listen in, won't you? I have a feeling I may need your help on this one."

"Sure thing, Holly," she said and put on her serious face before the doors opened. She tried to keep her expression blank as she saw his face slowly contort the farther he got.

She didn't bother to stand once he had made it to her large oak desk. "How can I help you?" There was no warmth in her voice.

He felt the need to shake his head, only slightly, "I'm here to see Madam Strait."

"In regards to..?"

"I had an appointment." He visibly clenched. Hand squelched around his briefcase, jaw tightening.

_Oh, revenge is so sweet. _"Let me check that?" She started to punch random keys, one by one when Helena said through the phone on her ear, "For heaven's sake, let him in, Molly!" She was barely suppressing her laughter.

Molly wordlessly pushed the button that would open the double doors. She waited until he was in the office, the doors firmly shut, before saying into the mouth piece, "Spoilsport."

The two businesspeople went into the now familiar dance of introductions. Then came the ballet of small talk until they tangoed to **t**he hard beat of negotiations. It usually took a while to get to the good parts, so Molly found herself tuning them out. She glanced at her reflection and was again amazed at the face staring back. Her straight black hair used to be matted and stained with dirt. Her face wasn't always that pale porcelain. Her green eyes shone brightly from behind coal eyeshadow. Four years ago, she never would have imagined that she would be wearing a simple black suit that would cost more than she ever saw since her parents died. She had changed so much. Her attention was brought back to her employers conversation once again, when she heard Helena let out an easy laugh. She would have gladly listened along with no small sense of amusement when the first phone call came in. She noticed the light on the phone network for Stella was blinking. She transferred over so she wouldn't bother Lena, and answered it. "Talk to me, babe."

Her levity was not returned. "Mrs. Strait has a phone call," Stella said in her well enunciated tones.

"Mrs. Strait always has a phone call, Stella. Who is it?"

"He claims he has some important information that Mrs. Strait needs to be notified of immediately."

"But he won't give a name?" Molly asked in disbelief.

"No?"

"You know the rules," Molly came back, holding back her amusement. "Unless he gives a name, he doesn't even get to speak to me, much less Mrs. Strait. Tell him to sod off."

She hung up and continued to listen in on her boss and the human worm.

The arduous aide was in the middle of a sentence."... know you have had as much of a problem with the current situation as the Senator, Madam Strait, and he feels that..."

Again her phone rang, and she tried very hard not to yell into the small microphone attached to her head, "Stella, this had better be worth your job." She really wanted to continue her surveillance of the meeting. Her spidey-sense was were telling her that Aldrich was up to something.

At first all Stella could verbalize was a small gasp, then, "He's being most insistent, ma'am."

"And the bastard refuses to give you a name?"

"He appears to be reticent-"

"I get it, Stel." She cut that off before Stella could run on. _Ok, enough with the cryptic crap. _Molly held back a suffering sigh. "Just send him through, babe."

"Hello-" The voice was young, male.

"Whom may I say is calling?"

Silence.

"Trowa Barton."

Molly was stunned. She sat there and waited for the words to make sense. She hung up without another word and buzzed Stella. "Don't let that phone number through again,"

She told her with barely restrained anger. "Don't tell Mrs. Strait about this." She cut off whatever Stella's reply would have been.

_Who the hell does he think he is?! That _has _to be more than a coincidence._ She rifled through the papers she had thrown away with a new purpose. She grabbed the magazine with the catchy phrase "Homo Honeymooners," her stomach turning. "How well does the public really know the Golden Couple of the business world? Some say they have the perfect marriage, beautiful children, and are some of the shrewdest minds in their philanthropic arena. But there is a dark cloud overshadowing their golden shine. A source from Quatre's dark, mysterious past has come forward. He claims that he was the pilot's secret lover..." She checked another tabloid and it said the same thing, so did the next and the next.

"That slimy bastard!" She was glad that the hall and Helena's workroom were soundproof. She nearly fell off her chair when the smaller door built into the larger ones opened.

"I'll be only a moment, Mr. Camden," Helena said before she closed it behind her. "Where were you? I was giving you the signal for the last- What's all this?"

"Nothing," she said. Molly tried to shield the wreckage on her desk with her spare frame. "I was just thinking how they would make good recycled toilette paper."

"I see," Helena replied slowly. She wasn't fooled, but she let it go. "Well, I'm afraid I'll be out for the rest of the day. I've been thinking... Could you do me the huge favor of being with the girls when their school is out. Maximilian is so very good with them, but I would feel so much better if you would accompany them. I don't know when I'll be finished. The girls love you and-"

"Sweetie, you're rambling," she said to still her unusually jumpy employer. "Of course I'll look after the twins. Is there anything else you need?"

"An aspirin?"

Molly tossed her the bottle from her large purse.

"Molly-dear," Helena exclaimed, exasperated, using her long-time nickname. "I just bought you a new Carla Anne purse! Why on Earth would you still use that ratty thing?"

Molly looked down at her bag. It was real black leather but it had become flimsy and worn with use. Whenever a seam came undone she would sew it back on herself, but it was far from professional. It was the first thing she had ever bought working for Helena. She would never tell her friend but she had even named the bag. Clarice.

"Oh, it works for me," Molly replied playfully. "Let it go already."

"And let my friend be a fashion victim?" She gasped. "Never."

Molly just waved her back into the office. When she was gone, Molly shucked everything back into the trash. "Assholes!" She yelled at the offensive headlines.

Her phone rang again. She nearly broke the handle when she answered it. "Yeah?"

"It seems that-"

Molly interrupted Stella "Is it him?" A long pause

"Yes?" She hung up.

_The nerve..._ The damn thing actually rang again!

"What?" She answered anyway.

It was Barton! "I would like to talk to-"

"I know what you want to talk about, you little sumabich. Forget it." Her voice was an angry whisper. _I love Stella, but sometimes sher can be pretty damn stupid._

"Quatre-"

"How dare you even think of bringing him up!? Haven't you caused enough trouble as it is?"

"I don't know-"

"You know exactly what I mean! Independence Day? When you came to give him his _gift?"_

There was stunned silence to her answer then, "It was a hug-"

"We both know it was much more than that." Molly had always prided herself for having the best damn gaydar in the galaxy.

No matter what she had said to reassure Helena, she had always known about the two former soldiers. If she had thought that anything happened beyond that hug, she would have told her friend. But, as it was, she didn't have anything concrete.

_Except for every "news" media in town!_

"Regardless-"

"How is that 'regardless?!'" She demanded. "Okay, you spread your name through Entertainment Tonight, and it's 'regardless.'"

"What?"

_Fuck it. _"You're not going to stop are you? This is enjoyable for you?"

"Quatre's sick!"

"Of you?" Her quick mouth supplied. "I'm not surprised after reading the papers."

"I never talked to any papers."

For some reason, his quiet voice made her pause. He seemed to take this as a invitation to continue. "Quatre is... in a coma."

She let out a shaky breath. "That's not fucking funny."

"I-I thought she should know."

Molly knew then, as she listened to the long, dead tone that it wasn't a joke.


	12. Chapter 12

**A/N Bit of a recap but at this point it might do to have a cohesive retelling. Since this _is _ a recap, I'll be posting the next chapter in a few days instead of waiting a full week. Thank you for your reviews! **

Chapter 12

Questions and quandries marched through his mind like tiny tin soldiers, legs straight, expressions unyielding. They simply refused to be ignored. The most curious and foreboding question shone brightly behind his closed eyelids, etched itself within the darkness in white ink.

_Who is he?_

Zechs was leaning back in his chair. His long fingers laced behind his head. He could hear Heero moving about his room, and he listened closely for any signs of conversation that would tell him Gabrael was awake.

He nearly fell backwards when the door to his office banged open and his very agitated aide strode to stand before him in all his muted fury. He was trying to speak but his voice came out in inarticulate grunts and squeaks.

"You-he-how-?!"

"Is something wron-?"

"Yes!"

For the first time in his short political career, Zechs had been rendered speechless. He just stared at Edvard and waited for him to start making sense before he dare continue.

"You left me alone with him for five hours!" Edvard almost whined.

_Oh, good Lord in Heaven, _Zechs thought, beginning to feel guilty. He stood hands poised in a conciliatory gesture before saying, "Edvard, I am-"

"Oh, no you don't," he interrupted him. "I am sorry, sir, but there is only so much a man can take. That-That... arrogant old walrus did nothing but complain! He had the gall to go so far as to critique my shoes and the fact that my _suit _did nothing for me! The man is completely ridiculous, not to mention _delusional. _He honestly believes Her Majesty sent him here for an inspection!" He was breathing heavily by this point. "And to top that off, after being subjected to him for f_ive hours, _I have to find out from a _recruit _on cleaning duty that you have had entire sections cleared off and have declared your very office a Level 1 off-limit zone!"

The situation would have been comical if Zechs weren't being chastised like a child whose hand had been in the cookie jar for far too long. The worst part was that he knew he deserved it. Edvard had been in the top of his need-to-know list since he had been assigned to Zechs four years previously. The fact that he kept something so obviously important from the man was a grievous breech of etiquette.

"Well?!" Edvard, cried, finally wanting an explanation.

"Believe me, Edvard, whatever you have endured today was entirely necessary."

"_Five hours, _sir?"

"What the Hell is going on in here?" Apparently, Heero had decided to join the fray.

In less than a second, Edvard deflated. To his benefit, he took the fact of being caught in the middle of a lecture much better than Zechs had. Edvard expression smoothed to a look of detached professionalism and his body relaxed.

"Oh, Mr Yuy," he said as if he hadn't just been scolding the most powerful man in the galaxy. "I didn't realize you were here."

Zechs marveled at the transformation. _He is not human._

Heero ignored the aide and instead he turned his deadly gaze on Zechs. "What happened?"

"Actually," Zechs jumped in before Edvard got going again. "That was the very thing Mr. Ernst was trying to ascertain." All that awarded him was two sets of very angry glares.

"Your Highness," Edvard began.

Zechs just barely stopped himself from cringing. _He said that on purpose!_

"I believe that for my level in this government, I deserve a certain amount of information, for nothing else than not looking like an _utter _incompetent in front of a recruit wearing a yellow apron and wielding a toothbrush."

Much to Zechs' dismay, Heero actually looked at the small man, impressed. Zechs suddenly felt very small.

"Edvard, please," Zechs said, trying to regain some control over the situation. "I can explain everything, you have my word. Heero, see to Gabrael." When Heero hesitated to give a meaningful glance towards Edvard he added, "It's alright."

Once they were alone, Zechs had expected Edvard to lunge at him once again, but the man sat, quietly adjusting his suit. Zechs took the moment to give him a once over. Edvard was a twenty-something man that at some point in history would have been considered to look Middle Eastern. His light brown skin and black curls were well maintained companions for his usually dark suits. The current one was a dusty brown, paired with a nicely textured pink tie. It was all the rage on Earth, or so Zechs had heard. Edvard was an unusually well-dressed man who held self-control and pride as the top virtues. This was obvious as he sat straight in the chair and looked Zechs directly in the eyes, showing no shame.

_In another life, he and Wufei would have gotten along well with each other._

"I understand your frustration," Zechs began.

"Sir, while my outburst was ill advised, my point was sound, and-"

Zechs held up a hand to gently silence him. "I understand," he said again. "However, the situation is much worse than it was this morning."

"I'm sorry?"

"I need you to trust that what I'm about to tell you is the absolute truth. I assure you that I am quite sane."

Edvard nodded, face blank, eyes dark. _About time, _he thought

"Three weeks ago, the _Strait and True_, piloted by the team known as G Service, embarked to investigate a tip by a captured Red. In interrogations prior, the Red told Heero Yuy of a weapon held by her comrades on a hidden bunker somewhere on Pluto." He paused, seeming to debate on how to word the rest.

Edvard adjusted in his seat silently.

"During this routine search and seizure, after nearly a fortnight of outward surveillance, Yuy, the team leader, ordered to dock, after which he, Quatre Winner, and Wufei Chang began infiltration. Trowa Barton stayed behind to begin the thorough technical sweep from the ship."

Edvard briefly wondered if he should be writing all this down.

"Phase one ended smoothly, with no altercations with the enemy. This was explained by, once Winner and Chang commandeered the main Observation Deck and subsequently the entire base, the complete lack of life signs."

"No one was there?"

Zechs nodded. "That was the first impression of the Service. Yuy found a suicide upon completing phase one, meaning he came to the initial stop point. After-"

"I'm sorry, sir." It was almost painful for him to interrupt, but his curiosity was burning. "Suicide?"

Zechs physically drew himself up in his chair. It was one of his worst tells. _He is truly disturbed by all this, _Edvard realized.

"A woman overdosed on the street drug known as Tact, so called for the fact that it is hard to identify in any autopsy done up to 6 days after death, and slashed her wrists. Yuy decided that she had died from the drug, however and not blood-loss. He ordered-"

"She Oded _and _slit her wrists?"

"Yes," Zechs said simply, letting the implicatios sink in, and observed Edvard carefully. If he saw any signs of serious unease, he would wrap it up there, but Edvard just nodded.

"I see," he said calmly, much to Zechs' surprise.

_Maybe I have been underestimating him. _"Yuy ordered Chang to meet him and delegated Winner to inform Barton to do a full sweep of the compound from his place on the ship. Full sweep is-"

"Sir," he interrupted yet again. "I know what a full sweep entails. With all due respect, I am not your secretary; I am your military aide and unofficial bodyguard, hired by Her Majesty. If you would like to dictate a report, I can call Mrs. Summers for you."

Zechs caught himself gaping at him before it became too obvious, and managed to regain his composure. "I assure you, Edvard, I am not telling you this for any official purpose. I need your sound advice." _I'm telling you this as a friend._

Edvard, thankfully, appeared to get the message. "Be that as it may, would it be too much of an inconvenience, sir, to... get to the point?"

For the first time since Gabrael came to _Calliope_, Zechs gave a real laugh. He kept laughing until his face started to hurt. When he got himself under control, Edvard was ready to begin again. "So, Mr. Yuy found the dead Red..."

_He's acting as if this is a normal conversation over tea and biscuits. _"After he met with Chang, they came to what they titled the Objective, the room which supposedly held the weapon. They found... a prisoner." He was having difficulty continuing.

Edvard waited.

"This prisoner was being attacked by a Red. Wufei shot him once to disarm him... and then again to kill." He paused again to see what Edvard had to say, but the man remained silent. "They brought the prisoner back to the ship."

That simple statement evinced much for Edvard. "Without questions?"

Zechs nodded.

"Without blind-folding him?" Edvard demanded, his voice rising slightly. "Or restraining him in any way?"

"He was traumatized." Zechs didn't know why he was being defensive. "That's not the point. After they boarded the _Strait and Truem_and docked on the bunker, which they had so christened _Orion 12, _they looked over the surveillance footage. The first corpse wasn't the only one. Everyone, men women and children, all killed themselves, and those that didn't were killed outright."

The only acknowledgment of this on Edvards part was a slight widening of his eyes. Zechs waited for more questions but they never came. The man stayed immobile, frozen.

"Barton and Winner began the in-depth investigation," Zechs continued. "Winner stayed in obs. Barton went to scout where they had liberated the prisoner. He found..."

At this point, Zechs leaned back in his chair He found this next section of the retelling particularly disturbing, and he had to gather himself a moment. To his credit, Edvard let him, with a patience and a grace that lesser men did not possess. After maybe a minute or so he continued.

"Blood," Zechs said, sounding distracted. His eyes had focused on a whirl in the sandalwood of his desk. "The entire room was covered in red blood. He could smell it. And hanging... chained to the ceiling..."

Edvard listened with baited breath, watching Zechs become entranced.

"Leathered...Human... It was bleeding."

"Zechs?"

"It was a large sack made of human skin, stitched together. It held more blood, like a filled sack." Finally he turned his face up to Edvard again. "It wasn't there when Heero and Wufei were in the room."

Edvard sucked in some air to ask, "Maybe they didn't notice before."

Zechs was shaking his head before he had finished the first word. "It was dark, but Heero was sure the only thing in the room was Gabrael. He had been hooked to the very same chain. And, when Trowa was later in the room, he hadn't seen the neutralized Red. The body was gone."

Edvard didn't speak. He didn't trust himself.

"Someone else was on that base with them. Someone who didn't show up on the sensors of Quatre's ship, obs, or their radar,"

He watched Edvard's jaw working, Zechs tried very hard not to reach in his top desk drawer for the stress ball. A meditation tool which used to be a shining white, but was now faded gray in four thin lines where his fingers had made impressions. He waited impatiently for an answer.

"You need to send people out there right now," Edvard said, eyes level.

"What?!" Heero had barged into the office yet again, and Zechs really couldn't blame him.

Edvard didn't even acknowledge Heero's looming presence. "With all due respect, sir, you need more information," he said, as if it was the most obvious notion he could imagine. And maybe it was.

"That place was..." Heero seemed to be trying to find the suitable words.

"_Orion 12 _needs to be investigated." He hadn't looked away from Zechs.

"Gabrael was the only one there," Heero said through gritted teeth.

"Who is this Gabrael?" Edvard demanded, suddenly. "Is he the prisoner you keep alluding to?"

"Yes," Zechs jumped in. "He's in the other room."

"I'm sorry?" Edvard stood to look for himself, but Heero's muscular frame stopped him.

"He's sleeping," Heero deadpanned.

"You allowed a person of interest from a _raid_ into His Highness' private chambers?"

Zechs tried very hard not laugh at the comical scene they made. A small wisp of a man in a stylish business suit was staring down -or up to, as the case may be- one of the four best soldiers in all of New Sanc Kingdom's arsenal. He had to admire his aide's courage, even if he thought it was spawned from insanity. Zechs was starting to realize that there were a few things about Edvard that he had yet to learn.

"Let him see, Heero." Zechs, from his chair, locked gazes with him over Edvard's head, sending the silent reassurance.

With a great effort, Heero stepped aside to let the other man open the door. From behind him, Heero and Zechs saw his shoulders hunch just slightly when he looked inside.

"Hello," he said. His tone didn't soften or harden. It didn't change in any way. He simply gave a very matter of fact greeting.

Gabrael, now awake, stared at him from over the blanket, half sitting. All that could be seen of him was the top of his head and two piercing eyes. Heero walked towards him and put a hand on his shoulder. He whispered something the other two couldn't hear.

Gabrael turned back to Edvard again. He squinted as if trying to figure something out. Eventually, slowly, and with great effort he pulled his lone wing from behind him. It shook in some form of a creaky wave. "Hi."

Edvard inhaled deeply, straightened his suit, and backed out the door. He closed them in front of him with a snap, leaving Heero and Gabrael in the dark.


End file.
